

LES, ftS S'^'* 



^«'',.M15 







Jfe (®l\ 







TALES 



HISTORY, HEROES, AND POETS 



BY 



GRACE GEEENWOOD. 



(!Wft5 fiUusttatfons. 






BOSTON: 
TIOKNOR AND FIELDS 

M DCCC LXI. 



.L^ 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1860, by 

LEANDEK K. LIPPINCOTT, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Di&trict of Massachusetts. 



6 ^^ 



University Press, Cambridge : 
Stereotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co. 



L 



TO 



MASTER THOMAS B. TICKNOR. 



My dear Laddie : — 

Allow a happy guest in your beautiful home to dedicate 
to you this volume. 

I am aware that few, if any, of these historical tales can 
be new to you ; yet I am vain enough to hope that you will 
read my version with a new interest. Indeed, some of the 
stories of Scotland's heroes and martyrs cannot be read too 
often. It is well to keep in fresh remembrance how much 
these brave and devout spirits dared and endured for their 
liberties, their country, and their God. 

Such noble examples will serve only to stimulate and 
strengthen the highest and manliest attributes of your na- 
ture, — to exalt your boyish enthusiasm for the beautiful, 
the heroic, and the true into an abiding principle, a habit 
of life, a Christian faith. 

Praying that you may carry into manhood the happy 
ingenuous spu'it, the gracious endearing qualities of the boy, 
— that the fondest hopes of love may be fulfilled in your 
fortunate and honorable future, — 

I remain ever your friend, 

GRACE GEEENWOOD. 
Jamaica Plain, Dec. Zd, 1860. 



CONTENTS 



PAOK 

ALLO WAY.— Robert Burns 1 

GLASGOW. — Sir William Wallace 19 

LOCHS LOMOND AND KATRINE. — Rob Roy . . 89 
STIRLING CASTLE. — The Little Douglas ... 59 

BANNOCKBURN. — Robert Bruce 79 

LINLITHGOW. — Mary Queen of Scots .... 99 
EDINBURGH. — Liutle Margery and her Kitten . 119 
EDINBURGH. — The Marquis of Montrose . . .143 
EDINBURGH. — The Two Margarets .... 163 
EDINBURGH. — The 'Prentice's Pillar . . . .185 
THE CITY CROSS. — The "Pretenders" ... 219 

MELROSE. — ABBOTSFORD. — DRYBURGH. — Sir Wal- 
ter Scott 246 



5ll!nitrfli| 



ROBERT BURNS. 



ROBEET BURNS. 




T WAS Oil the evening of Sep- 
tember 23d, 1852, that I left 
dear old Ireland, with some 
kind friends, for a short tour 
in " Bonnie Scotland." We took a steamer at 
Belfast for Ardrossan, where we landed early 
the next morning. From this port we went by 
railway to the town of Ayr, where we took a 
carriage and drove over to the parish of Alio- 



4 ALLOWAY. 

way, the birthplace of the poet Burns. Almost 
all travellers who yisit Scotland come here, — 
some merely to have it to say that they have 
seen the place, with other sights, and some be- 
cause of a real love for poets and poetry. 

Robert Burns was a peasant, and the son of a 
peasant. His father's cottage, which we visited 
first, was in his time what is called in Scot- 
land " a clay bigging," containing only two apart- 
ments, a kitchen and a small sitting-room. We 
were sorry to find that an addition had been 
built on to it, and that it was occupied as an 
alehouse. There is a noble poem by Burns, en- 
titled " The Cotter's Saturday Niglit," in which 
this cottage is described, as are also the pious 
father and mother of the poet. 

Near by stands " old AUoway Kirk," a ruined 
stone church, also rendered famous by a poem, 
though of a very different character, entitled 
" Tam o' Shanter." 

As this witty poem, like most of the writings 
of Robert Burns, is in the Scottish dialect, which 
my young readers would hardly understand, I 
will relate in plain prose the story, which made 
a great laugh through all the county of Ayr- 
shire, some seventy-five years ago. 



ROBERT BURNS. 5 

Tam o' Shanter, which means Tom of Shan- 
ter, was a jolly peasant, who lived on a farm, 
in the poet's neighborhood. Tam was Tinfor- 
tunately given to drinking too much, especially 
when he got away from home, among his cronies. 
His goodwife, Kate, did her best to admonish and 
reprove him, and to warn him of the danger of 
such evil ways. She told him plainly that he was 
an idle, tippling, good-for-nothing fellow, who was 
bound to destruction as fast as he could post, in 
spite of the blessmgs of an industrious, affection- 
ate wife, and a blooming family of little ones. 
She bade him mark her words, — that, sooner or 
later, he would be found drowned in the Doon ; 
or that the witches and warlocks that haunted 
old AUoway Kirk would catch him and run off 
with him, body and soul, and she would be left a 
poor lone widow, and her sweet bairns be forever 
deprived of a father's care and example. 

Well, one night, Tam came home some time 
after twelve, with a fearful story of strange ad- 
ventures, which for once stopped his Kate's 
scolding tongue with wonder and horror. It 
had been a market-day at Ayr, and Tam was 
easily persuaded to stay late at the alehouse, by 



6 ALLOWAY. 

an old crony of his, one " Souter Johnny," or 
Shoemaker Johnny. The landlord and landlady 
sat down with them, and they drank the foaming 
ale, sung songs, and told stories, hour after hour, 
while the storm beat and the wind whistled with- 
out. At last, Tam very reluctantly mounted his 
good gray mare, " Meg," and started for home ; 
— facing wind, rain, thunder, and lightning, but, 
as he afterwards declared, thinking them of small 
account, compared with the tempest which Kate 
would raise about his ears when he should reach 
his farm-house at Shanter. 

As he drew near Kirk Alloway, which had long 
enjoyed the reputation of being haunted by very 
naughty spirits, what was his astonishment to see 
bright lights shining through its ruined windows, 
its cracks, and crannies, and to hear from it loud 
sounds of laughter, fiddling, and dancing ! 

Tam was no coward by nature, and the strong 
ale he had drunk made him wonderfully brave ; 
so he did not hesitate to satisfy his curiosity by 
riding up to one of the windows, where he peeped 
in upon a startling scene. It was, he declared, 
a ball of lady and gentleman witches, with " Old 
Nick," in the shape of a horned beast, for fiddler ! 



ROBERT BURNS. 7 

The dancers were a wicked-looking set of crea- 
tures, — grim, ugly, and terrible, — who danced 
with wild leaps and furious yells, and made 
themselves as hideous and disgusting as possible. 
There was one exception, however ; a young 
witch, called Nannie, tolerably good-looking, and 
who was so supple and frolicsome, bounded and 
whirled about so lightly, and took such pro- 
digious jumps, that Tam was delighted, and, for- 
getting where he was, and that he must not let 
that select company know that an uninvited guest 
was watcliing their unholy sport, he clapped his 
hands, and shouted, " Well done ! " 

As the poem says, — 

" In an instant, all was dark ! " 

and out of the kirk poured the whole witch- 
company, shrieking and howling, and taking after 
Tam, who spurred and whipped his faithful Meg 
to her utmost speed, in order to reach the bridge 
over the Doon ; for those who believe in witches 
say that they have no power to cross running 
water. Thanks to Meg's fleet legs, he did escape 
from their clutches, but she, more unlucky, came 
off second best, — for the spry witch Nannie 



8 ALLOWAY. 

caught her by the tail, and hung on till they 
reached the key-stone of the bridge, when the 
tail gave way in her hands, 

" And left poor Meggie scarce a stump ! " 

When Tarn o' Shanter reached home, and re- 
lated his fearful adventure to his wife Kate, she 
only said, " I told you so,'' and advised him to 
go to bed and sleep himself sober. I do not 
know that she doubted her husband's account of 
the awful sights he had seen and the peril he 
had been in ; for she was an ignorant, super- 
stitious woman, who believed in warlocks, witch- 
es, and all that sort of thing. Then, I think it 
likely he confirmed the strange tale he told, by 
pointing to the one, or rather the stump of the 
one poor Meg had lost ; but some of his shrewd 
neighbors shook their heads and laughed, saying 
Tam had had his mare docked in town, and had 
either imagined the witch-dance, from having 
drunk so much ale, or had invented the whole 
story to save himself from a sound rating, for 
staying so late, carousing with his roy storing 
friends. 

I cannot say which supposition is the true one, 



ROBERT BURNS. 9 

but I was told at Alloway that after Burns wrote 
" Tam o' Chanter ^'' the hero of the ludicrous 
adventure never heard the last of it, and was 
laughed at to the day of his death, — as every 
idle, careless, beer-tippling story-teller deserves 
to be. 

The old bridge over the Doon is still standing. 
We walked across it, and strolled up and down 
the green banks of the little river, repeating 
Burns's song, — 

" Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon ! " 

A few rods away from the bridge stands a no- 
ble monument, erected in honor of the poet. It 
overlooks nearly all the country which he loved 
and made famous, — which was called, by the 
right of his genius and fame, " the land of 
Burns," — though not a foot of it did he act- 
ually own while he lived. 

The grounds about the monument are plant- 
ed with beautiful trees, shrubs, and flowers, as 
though to keep green and sweet the memory of 
the departed poet. 

We next visited a pretty cottage, all clambered 
over with roses, where we saw the sister and two 
1* 



10 ALLOWAY. 

nieces of Robert Burns. Mrs. Begg was but a 
little girl when her brother died ; but she remem- 
Dered him perfectly well, and delighted to talk 
about him. She was a fine-looking, intelligent, 
agreeable old lady, and I was sorry to part with 
her and her interesting daughters. 

We drove back to Ayr that afternoon, and 
took the evening train for Glasgow. 

And now, that you may all more fully under- 
stand what renders Ayrshire, and especially Al- 
io way, so interesting to tourists, I will tell you 
something more of the poet-hero of that region, 
in a little sketch of 



THE LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

Robert Burns was born on the 25th of Jan- 
uary, 1759, in a little clay cottage, in the parish 
of Alio way, Ayrshire. His father, William Burns, 
was a farmer, — an honest, hard-working man, 
intelligent, and sincerely pious. His mother, 
Agnes Burns, was a gentle-hearted woman, rather 
more romantic and poetic in her tastes than her 
husband. 



ROBERT BURNS. 11 

Very early in the life of her little Eobert, Mrs. 
Burns perceived his genius, and reverenced it as 
a choice gift of God. Instead of trying to check 
his taste for poetry, lest it should be in the way 
of his getting on in the world as a peasant far- 
mer, she kindly encouraged it, as something that 
might make the hard life of poverty beautiful and 
illustrious. 

She had by heart a great many Scottish legends 
and poems, which she used to recite and sing to 
her noble boy. On many a stormy winter day, 
as she sat at her wheel, by the fireside, in their 
little cottage, she sung to him wild, sweet ballads, 
till his great, dark eyes would flash with fiery 
passion, or grow dim with tender tears. 

Both father and mother labored diligently and 
constantly for the support and education of their 
children, whom they loved with the tenderest 
afiection. 

Eobert and his brother Gilbert were early sent 
to school ; and being boys of remarkable talent, 
and having an ardent desire to learn, they made 
rapid progress, and surpassed nearly all the other 
scholars. 

"Robert was a handsome boy, with a fine, sturdy 



12 ALLOWAY. 

frame ; a well-formed head, proudly borne ; a 
rich, glowing complexion ; dark hair, large brown 
eyes, and a thoughtful, even serious expression 
of face ; though, in his early manhood, he was 
renowned for wit and a reckless love of fun and 
frolic. 

Poor Robert's schooling was soon over ; and 
he was obliged, like his father, to labor inces- 
santly at farming other people's land, — plough- 
ing, planting, and harvesting, year after year, 
without a hope of earning more than a bare sup- 
port. Mr. Burns continued very poor ; his life 
was a constant struggle with want and care ; and 
it was the pleasure, as well as the duty of his 
sons, to give him all the aid in their power. 

When Robert was about sixteen, he began to 
write poetry, — little, light, jingling songs at first, 
which did not cost him much effort, or take his 
thoughts long from his work, but which cheered 
and consoled him under his many toils and priva- 
tions. From that time, he continued to write, 
more or less, and always better and better, till he 
died. For a long time, he had very little to en- 
courage him, for he was nothing but an obscure 
ploughman ; but he was conscious of noble feel- 



EOBEPwT BURNS. 13 

ings in his heart, and great thoughts in his brain, 
which the world needed to hear, and would listen 
to, and treasure up at last. 

It would have been far better for himself and 
the world, if Robert Burns had never written 
anything but what his purest feelings prompted, 
and his conscience approved ; but I am sorry to 
have to tell you that, when he was about twenty- 
three, he fell in with some gay, unprincipled 
young men, who led him astray ; and after that, 
he never was quite blameless in his life, and 
wrote some poems which do him no credit, and 
which he grieved to remember on his death-bed. 
When I think of his many good qualities, — his 
love and respect for his parents, Ms patient indus- 
try, his honesty and noble independence, — how 
I long to blot those miserable things out of the 
world, and out of everybody's memory forever ! 

At last the young poet published a volume of 
his writings, which made him so famous that he 
was invited up to Edinburgh, by some of the most 
celebrated people there. He spent a winter at 
the capital city, where he soon found liimself a 
very great man indeed. Authors and scholars, 
lords and ladies, vied with each other as to who 



14 ALLOWAY. 

shonld honor and praise and feast him most. But 
through all this flattering attention from the rich 
and titled, he remained a plain, simple-hearted 
farmer, — true to his honest class, not striving to 
climb above it, or learning to despise it, — utterly 
without affectation and pretension. He was a 
little rustic in his manners, but never awkward, 
bashful, or cringing. He had learned from the 
mind and life of his good mother to respect and 
admire noble women, — so he knew how to ad- 
dress duchesses and countesses ; he felt that he 
was a man^ with a heart to love all high and beau- 
tiful things, an intellect to grasp and create grand 
thoughts, and a soul that must live on forever, 
with the life of God, — and he knew that the 
proudest lord could be no more. 

One day, when Kobert Burns was dining with 
some literary people, he happened to be struck by 
some beautiful lines which were written under- 
neath a picture, on the wall, and inquired who 
was the author of them. Nobody among the 
great folks present could answer the question ; 
but finally, a quiet, fair-haired boy of fifteen, with 
a high, intellectual head, and thoughtful gray 
eyes, modestly gave the name of Langhorne as 



ROBERT BURNS. 15 

the writer. Burns turned and smiled upon the 
lad, with a look which he never forgot through all 
his own glorious life, — for that boy was Walter 
Scott. 

It was supposed that some of the rich and pow- 
erful admirers of the " inspired Ayrshire plough- 
man," as they called Burns, would endeavor to 
place him in a comfortable and honorable situ- 
ation, where he could devote the most of his 
time to literature. But no ; he was only " the 
fashion" with them for a little while, and then 
they were after some other novelty. They gave 
him a few dinners, bought a few copies of his 
book, and then left him to struggle on for himself, 
in the old way. The next year he solicited the 
influence of his best friend among the nobility. 
Lord Glencairn, to obtain a situation in the Ex- 
cise ; yet, for some reason or other, his request 
was not granted. But another friend, Mr. Alex- 
ander Wood, a surgeon, still affectionately spoken 
of in Edinburgh as "Kind Old Sandy Wood," a 
far better title than " Earl " or " Duke," hearing 
of the poet's wish, quietly went and procured him 
the appointment. The duty of an Exciseman is 
to arrest smugglers and the unlicensed manufac- 



16 ALLOWAY. 

turers and sellers of liquor, — not a very pleas- 
ant, proper, or profitable business for the poet, 
but it was the best that offered then : he accept- 
ed it gratefully, and always faithfully discharged 
the duties of his office. 

He returned to the country, married a young 
woman whom he had long loved, named Jean 
Armour, and settled down upon a farm, at Ellies- 
land, near Dumfries. Here he was very happy 
for several years with his dear wife and children, 
and here he wrote some of his noblest poems. 
But his farm proved unproductive, his writings 
brought him but little money, and he was finally 
obliged to sell out, remove to Dumfries, and de- 
pend entirely on his office as Exciseman. 

In December, 1795, he lost his only daughter, 
a little girl of whom he was very fond, and about 
that time his own health began to fail alarm- 
ingly. Riding over the country in all seasons and 
weather gave him rheumatic fever, from which 
he never wholly recovered. During the spring 
and early summer of 1796 he was obliged to re- 
sign his business, which was a great sorrow to 
him, as he thus lost the larger part of his salary, 
and he feared that his family must suffer without 



ROBERT BURNS. 17 

it. On tlie 5tli of July he went to the sea-side, 
hoping to get better there, — but it did him no 
good. On the 7th he wrote to his dear brother, 
Gilbert : " I am dangerously ill, and not likely to 
get better. God keep my wife and children 1 " 
On the 18th he came home to die, and on the 
21st he died. 

Mrs. Burns was left with four little sons ; but 
the last prayer of the husband and father for his 
dear ones was heard, and God did " keep " them. 
He raised up friends to care for them, so that 
they never came to want. Mrs. Burns lived to a 
good old age, and found herself honored more 
and more, every year, as the widow of a great 
poet. Two of her sons are yet living, and are 
very much beloved and respected. 

It is about sixty-four years since Robert Burns 
died, and now his name is known and his songs 
are sung the wide earth over, — which proves 
that when God gives a man true genius, all the 
neglect, poverty, and trouble in the world cannot 
keep it down. Yet there were many who would 
have lived and died happier, if, when they had the 
opportunity, they had given good counsel and 
brotherly aid to poor Burns, and, above all, com- 



18 ALLOWAY. 

forted him on his death-bed, with the promise that 
his family should not be friendless when he was 
gone. 

Dear children, when you read or hear sung 
" Auld lang Syne," " Bonnie Doon," " Highland 
Mary," " John Anderson," and other of the sweet 
songs of Robert Burns, I am sure you will think 
gently of the poet, — will pity him for his errors, 
as well as for his misfortunes, and feel admiration 
and gratitude for one who, out of a troubled life 
and a sorrowful heart, made so much music for 
the world. 



flasgnm. 



SIR WILLIAM WALLACE. 



SIR WILLIAM WALLACE. 



21 




LASGOW is considered the 
third city of Great Britain in 
wealth, population, commerce, 
and manufactures. It is situ- 
ated in Lanarkshire, on the river Clyde, at the 
point where it becomes navigable to the Atlantic 
Ocean. 

This city is said to have been founded as early 
as 560, by St. Kentegern, who appears to have 



22 GLASGOW. 

been remarkably active and enterprising for a 
Churchman. Yery little is known of the early 
history of Glasgow, except as connected with its 
famous minster, founded in the reign of King 
David the First, in 1136, and standing yet. It is 
a dark, imposing edifice, more stupendous than 
beautiful, and chiefly remarkable as being the 
only cathedral in the realm which escaped de- 
struction in the Reformation. The Protestants of 
Glasgow, very much to their credit, unceremoni- 
ously declared against the demolition of the 
building ; but they made a sort of burnt-offering 
to the spirit of the Eeformation, of the pictures 
and images of the saints, of altars and confes- 
sionals. 

After it passed into the hands of the Reformers, 
it was called the " High Kirk," or church ; and, 
once upon a time, it occurred to the session, or 
leading men, that it would be convenient and 
comfortable to have seats, to sit upon during the 
long sermons of their divines. So they had made 
what are called " forms," for the male part of 
the congregation ; surlily forbidding the women 
to make use of them ; saying, that if they wished 
to sit down during service they might bring stools 



SIR WILLIAM WALLACE. 23 

from home, — good enough seats for them. I 
should like to see " the brethren " of any church, 
in our age, and especially in our country, attempt 
to carry matters over " the sisters " with such 
a high hand! 

But these were disagreeable, troublesome times 
to live in, when the men were not only ungallant 
toward the women, but quarrelsome among them- 
selves. They all went armed everywhere, — even 
clergymen wore daggers and small-swords into 
the pulpit, where they professed to teach the mild 
and merciful religion of Christ. 

Glasgow is now a handsomely built city, with 
many fine public edifices, and pleasant, open 
squares, and several noble monuments. But it 
is a place of little historical or romantic interest, 
and tourists do not often linger in it long. We 
left the day after our arrival, without the un- 
pleasant feeling which we often experienced in 
going from other places, that we left many things 
unseen which could not be seen elsewhere. 

The first object of interest on our route was 
Dumbarton Rock, grandly towering up at the 
point of junction of the Clyde and the Severn, — 
crowned by its imposing stronghold, so often 



24 GLASGOW. 

mentioned in history, and most sadly memorable 
as having once been the prison of Sir William 
Wallace, about whom I shall say more by 
and by. 

Dumbarton Rock is one of those places which 
seem to have been formed by nature for the sites 
of castles and fortresses. It rises five hundred 
and sixty feet above the sea, in several bare, 
jagged, defiant points, apparently utterly im- 
pregnable, and yet its very supposed security 
was once the cause of the castle being sur- 
prised and taken, in a very singular and darmg 
way, which I would like to describe to you, 
if I had the space ; but I have not. 

We took a steamer up Loch Long, an arm of 
the sea. The scenery along this loch, or lake, is 
very striking and picturesque, though less so 
than that of Loch Goil, which branches off from 
it. I never shall forget my delight in sailing 
up this beautiful sheet of water. The shores 
on either side are now bold, precipitous, and 
rocky, now clothed with luxuriant foliage, dense, 
dark woodlands, or lovely green lawns, sloping 
down to the water. 

Loch Goil is the scene of Campbell's pathetic 
ballad of " Lord Ullin's Daughter.''^ 



SIK WILLIAM WALLACE. 25 

At the head of Loch Goil we took a coach, and 
drove several miles through a wild, romantic 
glen, to a place, called St. Catherine's, where we 
crossed another lovely lake, Loch Fyne, to the 
town of Liverary. 

The most interesting sight at Inverary is the 
Castle of the Duke of Argyle. This is a very 
handsome and stately building, but rather modern 
in its style. After all the palaces and castles we 
had seen, this did not strike us as being outward- 
ly or inwardly very grand or wonderful. But, 
according to the old Scotch housekeeper, who 
shows visitors through the rooms, there is nothing 
in all the world to be compared to " the DooWs 
braw castle." I have my doubts whether she 
would admit that Solomon's famous temple ap- 
proached it, in magnificence. In one of the state 
apartments there is some very beautiful tapestry, 
which the old lady solemnly affirms was woven 
by no human hands, but by " goblins, wha are a' 
deid noo," — (who are all dead now). It was 
only a fine specimen of the celebrated Gobelin 
tapestry, made in France. 

We enjoyed highly our strolls through the no- 
ble park and gardens of the castle, and a charm- 



26 GLASGOW. 

ing view from Duniquoich, a lofty hill, or, as 1 
heard it called, " a young mountain," on the 
Duke's estate. 

The following morning we took a carriage, and 
posted through Glencoe, a grand, dark mountain 
pass, to Tarbet, on Loch Lomond. After stroll- 
ing about the romantic shores, seeing some new 
beauty at almost every step, we crossed the lake 
in a row-boat, to Rowardennan Inn, where we 
took ponies to ascend Ben-Lomond. This is a 
very respectable mountain, rising three thousand 
two hundred and ten feet above the lake. The 
distance from the Lm to the summit is full 
six miles, and we found the way either boggy 
and slippery, or steep and rocky ; — yet our 
brave little ponies were fully equal to it, 
and seemed to enjoy the climb almost as much 
as we. 

0, the vast and wonderful prospect which we 
looked down upon at last ! Lakes, rivers, valleys, 
glens, castles, parks, cities, and a countless host 
of mountains, stretcliing away to the north, like 
the dark, mighty waves of a great sea heaved up 
in a midnight storm. 

But the sublime emotions which these grand 






SIR WILLIAM WALLACE. 27 

views excited in our minds, did not prevent us 
from keenly enjoying the fun of our descent from 
this lofty height. Our ponies, refreshed by a long 
rest, and by browsing upon the summit, went 
galloping, leaping, and plunging down at a right 
jolly rate, and dashed into the yard of the little 
inn in fine style. 

The story which I shall tell you in this number 
is sad and tragical, but I hope it will interest you 
as the life of an illustrious patriot and a brave 
man. 



THE STORY OF SIR WILLIAM WALLACE. 

Edward the First of England, a powerful and 
warlike monarch, as you may remember, after 
the death of King Alexander the Third, boldly 
usurped the government and conquered the king- 
dom of Scotland. He was in fact the sovereign, 
though he declared the weak John Baliol his 
" vassal-king," and had him crowned at Scone, 
under that inglorious title. He placed English 
garrisons in all the Scottish castles, and left the 



28 GLASGOW. 

entire management of the country in the hands 
of EngUshmen, who proved themselves hard and 
insolent rulers, — burdening with taxes, insulting 
and tyrannizing over the Scots, till that proud 
and stern people became thoroughly enraged 
against them. Yet for a long time they brooded 
over their wrongs in silence and inactivity, hav- 
ing no one popular leader under whose com- 
mand they could hope to avenge them, and 
recover the lost liberties of their country. 

At last the man for the times came forth, — 
not from the old Scottish nobility, but from the 
middle classes. William Wallace was the son of 
Sir Malcolm Wallace, of Ellerslie, Renfrewshire. 
While yet a boy, his father and elder brother 
were killed, in fighting against the English ; and 
thus his heart was early embittered toward the 
usurpers and invaders. 

At that time the Scots were a very rude peo- 
ple, — in many respects scarcely more than half 
civilized ; but they were brave, resolute, and 
hardy, and had been gifted by nature with a pe- 
culiar, passionate love of freedom. The men of 
mountainous countries are not the stuff that 
slaves are made of, — being generally fierce, 



SIE WILLIAM WALLACE. 29 

determined, and indomitable, and seeming to 
possess something of the fixedness of " the ever- 
lasting hills," and the spirit of the wild winds 
and the eagles that sweep about their summits. 
It had cost King Edward an immense amount 
of trouble, blood, and money to conquer Wales 
and Scotland ; and, after all, he never could feel 
secure for a day that they would have the de- 
cency to stay conquered. 

When matters in Scotland appeared to promise 
most favorably for the new English government, 
as the nation seemed finally crushed into sub- 
mission, there was a certain young lad quietly 
pursuing his education in Stirlingshire, who was 
destined to give his Majesty no little annoyance. 
This was William Wallace. 

As Wallace grew into manhood, he became 
remarkable for his personal strength and beauty. 
He was fair-haired, blue-eyed, tall, straight, and 
athletic. His disposition was mild, generous, and 
amiable ; and it is probable that, had it not been 
for his peculiar wrongs, and the wrongs and suf- 
ferings of the common people, — with whom he 
had deep sympathy, — he might have led always 
a quiet and peaceable life. 



30. GLASGOW. 

While he was yet very young, he was insulted 
and attacked by an English officer in Dundee, 
and, in self-defence, killed his antagonist. He 
was then proscribed, and took refuge in Ayr- 
shire ; where, collecting a force of brave coun- 
trymen about him, he waged an irregular war- 
fare against all the English who came in his 
way, punishing them summarily for every act of 
rapine and cruelty toward the poor and defence- 
less. He soon rendered himself notorious by his 
bold exploits, not only in Ayr, but throughout 
the neighboring shires ; and many high-spirited 
men joined him, thinking it better to live the 
perilous life of an outlaw than the shameful 
life of a slave. 

He afterwards retired to the forest recesses 
of Clydesdale, where he made himself more and 
more formidable to the English, — more and more 
beloved by the poor Scots. At any time, the 
sound of his bugle could summon recruits from 
the hamlets around him, and his band of regu- 
lar followers daily increased. These were all 
called " Robbers " by their enemies ; but, in- 
stead of beiiTg so, they were mostly gentlemen 
of respectable old Scottish families, who had 



SIR WILLIAM WALLACE. 31 

been robbed and outraged by the shameless in- 
vaders. 

At length William Wallace became so power- 
ful and renowned that the English tried in many- 
ways to buy him over to their interest. They 
offered him wealth, high position, and titles, if 
lie would follow the example of most of the no- 
bles and gentry of Scotland, and swear alle- 
giance to Edward. But he proudly answered, 
that no money could buy his honor ; that for 
no position at the court of a tyrant would he 
exchange his life of hardship and peril in the 
free forest-land ; that no title was so noble as 
that of an honest man. 

A cruel sorrow and wrong finally determined 
Wallace to take a yet more decided and promi- 
nent part against the merciless enemies of his 
country. On one of his venturous visits to Lan- 
ark he met a beautiful young orphan girl, by the 
name of Marion Bradfute. When he went home 
he found he could not forget her, — that her sweet 
face was always before him, and that he was no 
longer happy in his wild, lonely life. After a 
good deal of doubt and hesitation, — for the gen- 
erous hero felt that he ovight to devote himself en- 



32 GLASGOW. 

tirely to bis country, and not think of the peace- 
ful joys of love and home, — he sought the lovely 
orphan, and left the matter with her to decide. 
She thought that he might be soldier, patriot, and 
husband at the same time, and, being a brave girl, 
she loved him for liis heroic resistance to oppres- 
sion, and, though he was proscribed as an outlaw, 
was not afraid to become his wife. They were 
married, but privately, and Wallace was obliged 
to use great caution in visiting his bride, as it 
would endanger his life to be recognized at Lan- 
ark. Another reason for secrecy lay in the fact 
that the English governor, a hard, brutal man, by 
the name of Hazlerigg, had fixed upon Marion 
as a wife for his son, — because of her wealth, she 
being an heiress to considerable property, — thus 
the knowledge of her marriage with Wallace 
would doubly enrage him. 

One fatal day Wallace was recognized and 
attacked by some English soldiers, in the street 
near his own house. He fought bravely, but 
was about to be overpowered by numbers, when 
his door opened and a fair hand beckoned him to 
a temporary shelter. He dashed into his house, 
and escaped through a back door into the woods 



SIR AVILLIAM WALLACE. 33 



behind. It did not occur to his own tender, 
manly heart, that his devoted wife would be 
called to pay for his life with her own ; yet so it 
was. Hazlerigg arrested Marion, and, having 
ascertained that she was the wife of Wallace, put 
her to death. 

This savage deed filled all hearts with indigna- 
tion and horror. The fearful tidings were car- 
ried to poor Wallace, who, half distracted by 
grief and anger, collected his band, marched to 
Lanark, killed the monster Hazlerigg, and drove 
the English from the town. 

From this time Wallace devoted himself yet 
more entirely and solemnly to the great work of 
redeeming his oppressed country, and I fear — 
for Wallace, with all his pure and lofty spirit, 
was but human, and lived in bloody times — 
swore a fearful oath to avenge, to the utmost, his 
own terrible wrongs. 

At length the whole country became thoroughly 
aroused, — there were revolts occurring in all di- 
rections, and so many nobles and other men of 
note flocked to the standard of Wallace, that 
King Edward sent a large army to put the rebels 
down again. The first great battle of Wallace 

2* c 



34 GLASGOW. 

was fought at Cambuskenneth, near the bridge 
of Stirling, where the Enghsh were completely 
defeated and routed. 

Soon after this, the Scots conferred upon Wal- 
lace the title of " Guardian of Scotland, in the 
name of King John Baliol." This was a sort of 
regency, and excited some enmity among the 
Scottish nobility ; but Wallace bore himself with 
much prudence and modesty, and never sought 
to be anything more than the servant of the 
people he so much loved. But he remained in 
prosperity and power, and the nation in peace, 
but about a year. It seemed that the Scots were 
not yet worthy of freedom, at least the nobles 
were not. They felt, or affected to feel, a mean 
contempt for Sir William Wallace, because he 
was not a man of high rank, and insolently re- 
belled against his authority. At the battle of 
Falkirk, they who formed the cavalry fled at the 
first onset of the English, and, through their 
cowardly defection and the great superiority of 
the enemy, Wallace and his gallant infantry were 
defeated. 

This was a terrible reverse of fortune ; but the 
Scots did not give up the struggle for several 



SIR WILLIAM WALLACE. 35 

years, gaining some advantages against tremen- 
dous odds, but not succeeding as they would 
have done had they unanimously placed Wal- 
lace at the head of affairs, reposing perfect con- 
fidence in his judgment and patriotism. 

At length King Edward, by force or bribery, 
reconquered one after another of the leaders, and 
band after band of the dispirited army, till Sir 
William Wallace and his followers were the only 
true freemen in Scotland, — they alone having 
refused to take the oath of allegiance, and ser- 
vilely submit themselves to the hated usurper. 
The hero, saddened and disappointed, but not 
broken in spirit, or quite despairing, retired to 
his old haunts among the forests and mountains, 
and his old outlaw life, — again summoning his 
faithful adherents, again alarming his enemies 
with his bold bugle-blast. Thus he lived for 
more than seven years, laying plans for his 
country's deliverance, and patiently waiting for 
an opportunity to carry them out. 

But the same God who inspires patriots and 
martyrs, in his mysterious providence permits 
the existence of traitors and betrayers. A sol- 
dier and a Scotchman was at last found mean 



36 GLASGOW. 

and miserable enough to betray Sir William Wal- 
lace, and sell himself to eternal infamy, for the 
reward offered by the English. This was one 
Sir John Monteith, who treacherously got pos- 
session of him and delivered him up to his en 
emies, on the 5th of August, 1305. 

After a short imprisonment in Dumbarton Cas- 
tle, Wallace was conveyed to London, and was 
tried in Westminster Hall, charged with high 
treason. To this charge he simply replied, " I 
could not be a traitor to Edward, for I never 
was his subject." 

During this trial the noble prisoner was, like 
his Divine Master, crowned in mockery, — -being 
compelled to wear a garland of green leaves, as 
the king of robbers and outlaws. 

He was condemned to death, — drawn in a 
sledge to the scaffold, and beheaded. His body 
was then divided into four quarters, and stuck 
upon pikes on London bridge. 

Little is known of the last hours of Wallace, 
except that he died bravely, yet meekly, — pro- 
testing that he had done nothing for his coun- 
try of which he repented, and that he only re- 
gretted not having accomplished more. 



SIK WILLIAM WALLACE. 37 

Edward the First doubtless thought that he 
had struck down the spirit of Scottish freedom, 
with the Hfe of its noblest champion. But free- 
dom is an immortal principle, planted by God 
in the heart of man, and nothing can utterly 
uproot and destroy it. The rich blood of Wal- 
lace seemed to water and nourish it into a new 
growth, — his name became doubly dear, as that 
of a martyr to liberty, and grew to be the 
sacred watchword of his struggling countrymen. 
To this day it is more honored and beloved 
than that of any monarch — with the exception, 
perhaps, of Robert Bruce — that ever sat on the 
throne of Scotland. 

I have not, like the historians, given you 
the details of the fierce skirmishes and bloody 
battles in which Wallace was engaged, — for my 
heart is not in such things. It seems to long 
more and more, day by day, for that blessed 
time of " peace and good-will " promised to us, 
when "the nations shall learn war no more," but 
dwell on the quiet, happy earth like one great 
family, — like the children of God, as they are. 
But because Sir William Wallace did the best 
and noblest he knew how, in the dark and 



38 GLASGOW. 

troublous times in which he lived, — because he 
was generous, brave, true, and self-sacrificing, 
even to death, — I deeply reverence his mem- 
ory, and have had a heart-felt ple,asure iii writ- 
ing out his story. 



f nrjis tmm'h mt Vmt 



ROB ROY 



BOB EOY. 



41 




(^^ OCH LOMOND is considered 
the finest of all the Scottish 
lakes. It is twenty-three miles 
in length, and five in breadth 
at the widest, and contains a, multitude of the 
most lovely and fairy-like islands you can im- 
agine. The scenery of its shores is wonderfully 
beautiful and grand, — now filling the heart with 
delight, now thrilling it with awe, or lifting it 
in loving gratitude to God, who has placed us in 



42 LOCHS LOMOND AND KATKINE. 

a world of so much beauty and sublimity, and 
gifted us with souls to enjoy and reverence the 
works of his hands. 

The day of our trip up this lake was delightful. 
A soft autumnal sun goldened all the landscape, 
and the blue waves danced in a light, pleasant 
wind, while the atmosphere was so clear that we 
could see to a great distance. To the northward, 
the dark, lofty mountains ; to the southward, a 
fair, fertile country ; on either side, shady and 
flowery islands, or noble shores, with rocks, crags, 
and caves ; smooth, grassy slopes, or abrupt, 
heathery heights. 

I remember a little incident of this trip, tri- 
fling enough, but which struck me at the time. 
I observed a large hawk hovering in the air, near 
our boat, and circling lower and lower. Sud- 
denly he darted downward, and caught a fish 
from the water. He then began to ascend rather 
slowly, impeded by the weight of his prey. It 
happened that there was on board a Scotch duke, 
who had been sportmg in the Highlands, and 
who now, having his fowling-piece loaded, took 
a shot at the bold marauder, and, it seemed, 
slightly wounded him, for a few feathers floated 



ROB KOY. 43 

lightly down the air ; he gave a hoarse scream, 
and, in his pain or fright, dropped the fish, which 
fell, apparently lifeless, into the lake. Scarcely, 
however, had it touched the water, when the 
indomitable hawk was after it again ! He caught 
it in his talons, and bore it off in triumph, 
screaming down a democratic defiance to the 
duke. I remember saying, that none but a 
Higliland hawk would be so courageous and per- 
severing. 

We landed at Inversnaid, on the east shore of 
the lake, and drove through a rough, narrow 
glen, about five miles long, to Loch Katrine. On 
our way we passed the ruins of Inversnaid fort, 
erected to check the famous outlaw-chief Rob 
Roy Macgregor, and a forlorn Highland cabin, in 
which his wife, Helen Macgregor, was born. 

Loch Katrine is most famous as the principal 
scene of Scott's charming poem, " The Lady of 
the Lake ; " but its beauty would alone distin- 
guish it above nearly all other lakes. It is only 
about ten miles long, and at no place more than 
two broad. A mere pond, compared with our 
great mland seas, it is surely not grand, yet the 
scenery which surrounds it is some of the grand- 
est, as well as the most enchanting, in the world. 



44 LOCHS LOMOND AND KATRINE. 

We descended Loch Katrine by the tiniest 
steamer I ever voyaged upon ; whose speed was 
proportional to her size. She passed over the 
Httle waves with little nervous jumps, puffed 
out a little column of smoke, and left an exceed- 
ingly little wake behind her. Yet we reached 
.the most beautiful and romantic part of the lake 
at a very favorable time, — just at sunset, when 
mountain, stream, island, rock, and green wind- 
ing shore were bathed and glorified in gorgeous 
Ughts of purple and gold. 

Near the eastern shore is " Ellen's Isle," a 
charming spot, particularly interesting to the 
admirers of " The Lady of the Lake." A little 
way beyond Loch Katrme lie " The Trosachs," 
or " bristled territory," a wild, mountainous 
country, through which winds the dark defile 
of " Beal-an-Duine," the place where, accordmg 
to the poem, the " gallant gray " of Fitz-James 
sunk down and died. 

Loch Lomond, Loch Katrine, and the country 
around, are closely associated with the melan- 
choly and romantic history of the Macgregors, 
of whom I will try to give you a clear though 
brief account. 



ROB ROY. 45 



THE CLAN MACGREGOR, AND THE STORY OP 
ROB ROY. 

The Highlands of Scotland have been, for 
many centuries, inhabited by a remarkable race 
of people, called Celts ; naturally hardy, proud, 
and warlike, and descended from the ancient 
Britons, who took refuge in that almost un- 
known country at the time when the Romans 
invaded and conquered Great Britain. To this 
day they have a distinct language, the Gaelic, 
utterly unlike the English or the Scotch dialect 
of the Lowlands. Their dress is very peculiar 
and picturesque ; but, as you have all doubtless 
some idea of this from pictures, I will not stop 
to describe it. 

The Higlilanders, in old times, were divided 
into distinct tribes, or " clans." Now-a-days 
they keep up the names of these, but the old 
system of clanship, with its distinguishing cus- 
toms and prejudices, has almost utterly passed 
away. 

All the members of each of these clans believe 
themselves descended from one great ancestor, 



46 LOCHS LOMOND AND KATRINE. 

and were generally called by his name, with 
the addition of Mac^ which signifies sons. Each 
clan had its chief, supposed to be a descendant, 
in the most direct line, of the founder of the 
family. This chief they all implicitly obeyed, 
even when to do so was to go against their own 
wishes and rebel against the king. 

These different clans occupied distinct moun- 
tain districts, and were far enough, I am sorry 
to say, from dwelling in peace with each other 
or their common enemy, the Lowlanders. In- 
deed, they were such a bold, belligerent peo- 
ple, that it might be said of them, that they 
were never happy, except when in trouble and 
tumult, — never content, except when fighting 
and marauding. Yet they had their own good 
qualities. Tliey were brave, enduring, liberty- 
loving, trustworthy, hospitable, and unrivalled 
in their loyal devotion to their hereditary chiefs, 
and those they recognized as their rightful sov- 
ereigns, especially (which was noblest of all) 
when those sovereigns were in difficulty. 

The most remarkable of the Highland clans, 
in character and history, were the Macgregors, 
descendants of Gregor, son of Kenneth Mac- 



ROB ROY. 47 

Alpine, King of the Scots and Picts. This takes 
them back a long way ; and, indeed, the Mac- 
gregors made a great boast of their antiquity, 
saying, that " Hills, waters, and MacAlpines were 
the oldest things in Albion." 

They were a proud, powerful, and wealthy 
clan down to the time of King Robert Bruce, 
when their reverses and persecutions began. 
That monarch, whom they had not favored, 
undertook, in the height of his power, to check 
and humble them, by depriving them of a large 
portion of their possessions. From that time, 
misfortunes and wrongs thickened upon their 
heads, but without dismaying or subduing them. 
All the other clans submitted to the king, and 
received from him charters for their lands, but 
the Macgregors scorned to secure themselves by 
such concessions. 

In the fifteenth century it was proclaimed that 
their territory had all been bestowed upon their 
enemies, the Campbells. But they stood sturdily 
upon their lands, and bade the new owners come 
and take possession if they dared ! They were 
too powerful to be driven off; yet, having lost 
their legal rights, they were regarded as aliens 



48 LOCHS LOMOND AND KATRINE. 

and outlaws, and persecuted by all their neigh- 
bors. They obstinately refused to recognize their 
new landlords, desperately opposed all the forces 
sent against them, and made frequent and de- 
structive incursions into the territory of their 
foes. They divided into two separate bands, 
one on the banks of Loch Rannoch, the other 
living in the neighborhood of Loch Lomond ; 
there firmly planting themselves, and standing, 
like hunted wild animals, at bay. 

Through reign after reign, and century after 
century, they continued to be a doomed, perse- 
cuted, and suffering, but unconquerable people, 
— clinging to their old homes,. fighting and har- 
assing their old enemies, the Cainpbells and Men- 
zies, till the chiefs of those clans began to think 
that, but for the name of the thing, they might 
as well not have such an unruly and profitless 
set of tenants. 

The reign of James the Sixth was perhaps 
their darkest time. Then, for the slaughter of 
the Colquhouns and Buchanans at Glenfruin, or 
the Glen of Sorrow, a royal decree was passed 
abolishing forever the name and clan of Mac- 
gregor. 



ROB ROY. 49 

All that bore that surname were commanded to 
exchange it for some other, or suffer death, and 
every man was forbidden to wear arms. Those 
who rebelled against these severe laws were 
hunted down like beasts, by their old enemies, 
now in the employ of the king, and assisted 
by the royal troops. Through a long series of 
years, law after law was passed, bearing harder 
and harder upon them, till it was a wonder their 
very souls were not crushed out of them by op- 
pression. The most brutal of all, was one com- 
manding their women to be branded with the 
mark of a key in the face ; but I believe that 
no one was ever found bold or cruel enough to 
execute this law. 

During the civil wars of Cromwell, the Mac- 
gregors rallied and fought bravely for King 
Charles, notwithstanding all the wrongs inflicted 
on them by his father, James the Sixth. On the 
restoration of Charles the Second, they were al- 
lowed to reassume their ancient name, and were 
again recognized as an independent clan. After 
the English Revolution, the hard laws against 
them were revived, but never very strictly carried 
out, — and as the civil wars of the two countries 



50 LOCUS LOMOND AND KATRINE. 

came to an end, the persecutions of this unfortu- 
nate clan gradually ceased. 

The story of Rob Roy is told in full, in Scott's 
Novel by that name, and in the introduction to 
that work. I can only give you a slight sketch 
of the character and life of this last hero of the 
Macgregors. 

Rob Roy Macgregor Campbell, as he was 
obliged to call himself, was descended from one 
of the ancient chiefs of the proscribed clan, who 
lived at Glengyle, on Loch Lomond. He was 
born in comparatively peaceful times, received a 
good education, and was bred to a respectable 
calling. He married Helen Macgregor, of Inver- 
snaid, and for several years led an industrious and 
blameless life, never dreaming of being anything 
but an honest and peaceable man. His occupa- 
tion was that of cattle-dealer, — collecting cattle 
in the Highlands and driving them to markets 
in the Lowlands, or to England. 

It happened, unluckily, that Rob once entered 
into a partnership with the Duke of Montrose, 
in a great cattle speculation, which turned out 
very badly. Rob came home from England al- 
most ruined, as he had invested his all ; and 



ROB ROY. 51 

when he went to settle with the Duke, that ig- 
noble nobleman insisted on having back every 
penny of the money he had risked, with the 
interest ! This, of course, could not be ; Rob 
offered him his share of the little that was left, 
which he would not accept, but advertised the 
unfortunate drover as a swindler and a thief, 
and offered a reward for his apprehension as a 
culprit. 

This finished the ruin of the Macgregor ; he 
fled to his native hills and glens, and took up 
the life of an outlaw and freebooter. 

The Duke of Montrose seized upon Rob's 
property of Craigroyston ; his men sold all the 
stock and furniture, and even insulted and 
abused Helen Macgregor, — a proud and pas- 
sionate woman, who, with her husband, from 
that day swore vengeance against Montrose and 
his party. 

Rob Roy soon found himself at the head of 
a formidable band of Macgregors, who had their 
own wrongs to avenge, and their own living to 
get, by desperate means. Their robberies were 
principally of cattle, and they were called cear- 
nachs. or " cattle-lifters." Rob said that he was 



52 LOCHS LOMOND AND KATRINE. 

only carrying on his old business in a new 
way. 

Rob himself was a generous and benevolent 
freebooter, — if such a thing can be, — and very 
like the English Robin Hood, — often taking 
from the abundance of the rich to supply the 
needs of the poor. He believed that he had 
been cruelly driven into his lawless life, and 
often declared that he would much prefer a 
more honorable and peaceable career. In the 
Rebellion of 1715 he took the side of the Stu- 
arts, and had a commission in the rebel army. 
But when that rash enterprise failed, he was 
obliged to return to his old haunts, when he 
again devoted himself to the great business of 
his life, — tormenting the Duke of Montrose. 
Two or three times the Duke made out to cap- 
ture the outlaw ; but just as he was rejoicing 
over his good luck, Rob slipped, eel-like, out 
of his hands. Once he built a fort at Inver- 
snaid, to protect the country against" the bold 
robber, and distributed arms among his ten- 
ants ; but Rob very soon routed the garrison, 
and got possession of every one of the Duke's 
muskets. 



ROB ROY. 53 

As Rob E-oy grew to be an old man, lie felt 
a stronger desire to return to an honest way 
of living. He had an idea of resuming cattle- 
dealing, and redeeming his reputation ! He even 
addressed a petition to one of Eling George's offi- 
cers for pardon and permission to take his for- 
feited place in society, without danger of arrest 
and death. This touching request was taken 
no notice of, and poor Rob was obliged to die 
an outlaw. He died in the year 1738, a very 
old man, professing the Christian's hope. Just 
before he breathed his last, he requested his 
piper to play the mournful Gaelic dirge, — Ha 
til mi tulidh, — "We return no more." 

He was biiried in the old churchyard of Bal- 
quidder. No name is on the tombstone, but a 
broadsword is carved upon it, as a sign of his 
fierce spirit and lawless life. Yet he seems to 
rest as tranquilly as any innocent babe in all 
the churchyard ; the birds are not afraid to 
sing above his grave, nor the grass and flowers 
to creep over it ; neither do dews and sun- 
beams refuse to descend upon it. 

So, as the bold robber-chief seemed subdued 
and humble at the last, may we not hope that 



54 LOCHS LOMOND AND KATRINE. 

he yielded himself, like an erring but repent- 
ant child', to his God, and that Divine peace 
and forgiveness rested on his soul. 

The lesson, dear children, which I would draw 
from these old stories of wars, tumults, wrongs, 
and oppressions, is a grateful trust in the steady 
advance of the world toward a time of peace, 
justice, and brotherhood. True, there are wars 
now,^ — sad, terrible wars, — but they are between 
rival nations, not bitter, bloody strifes between 
clan and clan, family and family. The clans of 
Scotland now dwell in perfect peace, indeed are 
almost merged together, and it would now be as 
impossible for any one of them to be unjustly per- 
secuted, as that any man should be driven to the 
life of an outlaw because of a failure in a business 
undertaking. When you hear unhappy, croaking 
people say, " Ah me ! the world is getting worse 
and worse ! " don't believe them. It is constantly 
growing better, and the nations are slowly draw- 
ing nearer to each other, and so, to God. Yet, 
there is room enough for improvement, and it is 
not for us to be puffed up with our civihzation 
and righteousness. 

We look back with pity and horror to the 






ROB ROY. 65 

luinted and half-barbarous Macgregors of two or 
three hundred years ago ; but they had some 
noble qualities, which would put to the blush too 
many in our enlightened times. In proof of this, 
I will relate 



A LITTLE STORY. 

One morning a young Macgregor, the son of 
an old chieftain residing at Clenurchy, went out, 
with a party of his clansmen, to shoot on the 
moors. During the day they fell in with a 
young gentleman by the name of Lamont, and 
toward night invited him to go with them to 
an inn, for some refreshment. All went very 
pleasantly and merrily for some time, and then 
a quarrel arose, about some trifle, between young 
Macgregor and the stranger, over their wine. In 
a moment, swords were drawn, and at the first 
pass Macgregor fell dead ! Lamont made his 
escape and fled, but was fiercely pursued by the 
friends of the man he had slain. All night long 
he ran through the wild Highland country, and 
in the morning sought refuge at the first house 



6Q LOCHS LOMOND AND KATRINE. 

he saw. An old man was standing at the door. 
" Save my life ! " panted out Lament ; "I am 
pursued by enemies." 

" Whoever you are, you are safe here," replied 
the old man, taking him in, and commending 
him to his wife and daughters. But presently 
the Macgregors came up, and told the generous 
host that his only son had fallen in a quarrel, 
and that he was harboring the murderer ! For 
a moment, the poor old father bowed his face in 
his hands, crying out bitterly, " my sbn ! my 
son ! " His wife and daughters burst into sobs 
and shrieks ; the clansmen pressed forward, witli 
curses and threats, toward Lament, who gave 
himself up for lost, when the chieftain sternly 
waved them back, saying : "Be quiet ; let no 
man touch the youth ! He has the Macgregor's 
word for his safety, and, as God lives, he shall 
be safe while he is in my house." 

He faithfully kept his word ; and even accom- 
panied Lament to Inverary, with a guard, and 
having landed him on the other side of Loch 
Fyne, said : " Lament, you are now safe, if you 
keep out of the way of my clan. I can no 
longer protect you. Farewell, and may God 
forgive you." 



ROB ROY. 67 

The happiest part of this story is, that when a 
new persecution of the Macgregors broke out, 
and the old chief of Clenurchy was driven from 
his property, he and his family were offered a 
home in the house of Lament, who ever after 
devoted himself to the work of atoning to the 
poor exiles for the wrong he had done them. 

Dear children, let us bless the good God who, 
m all ages and in all countries, has implanted 
such generous and beautiful sentiments in the 
human heart. 



3* 



•tirling Castle. 



THE LITTLE DOUGLAS 



THE LITTLE DOUGLAS. 



61 





^ B TRAVELLED from the Tro- 
sachs to Stirling by the stage- 
coach, taking outside seats, so 
as to have better views of the 
lovely and noble country through which we 
passed. 

The most interesting object on our way was 
the ruined castle of Doune, on the banks of the 
Teith, once one of the proudest strongholds in 



62 STIRLING CASTLE. 

all Scotland. It was built by Murdock, Duke of 
Albany, who was afterwards, with his two sons, 
beheaded upon Stirling Castle-hill, from which he 
could see " the bannered towers " of his princely 
residence. 

The old town of Stirling is grandly situated 
on an eminence, near the river Forth, — but con- 
tains nothing of remarkable interest, except the 
castle, which stands on the highest point, over- 
looking the country for a great distance, in every 
direction. Within sight from its walls are no 
less than three of the most celebrated of Scot- 
land's battle-fields, — Cambuskenneth, Falkirk, 
and Bannockburn. 

Stirling Castle is now only kept up as a for- 
tress, but throughout the reigns of the Stuarts 
it was a favorite and important royal residence. 
Among the interesting objects and places which 
were pointed out to us by the soldier who con- 
ducted us through the old palace and castle, was 
the room in which King James the Second killed, 
with his own hand, the Earl of Douglas, — an 
unprincely and most inhospitable act ; though this 
Earl, like the greater portion of his family, was 
ambitious, unscrupulous, cruel, and rebellious. 



THE LITTLE DOUGLAS. 63 

We were also shown a narrow road, descending 
the precipice behind the castle, and called Bal- 
langeich, which signifies in Gaelic, " windy pass." 

James the Fifth used to pass out of the Castle 
by this way, when he went on secret expeditions, 
in disguise, as he was very fond of doing, — and 
he took a name from it, calling himself, ''the 
Guidman of Ballangeichy * He was a merry, 
daring prince, a sort of Scotch Haroun Alraschid, 
and had many amusing adventures under his as- 
sumed character, — one or two of which I will 
relate 

One time, when the king had distinguished 
foreign guests, and was feasting them with great 
state and jollity at Stirling, he was informed by 
his steward that provisions were running rather 
low, and sent off in haste to the hills for venison. 
The hunters were successful in killing a fine lot 
of fat deer, which they slung upon the backs of 
horses, and set out for Stirling. 

It happened, unluckily for them, that they were 
obliged to pass the Castle of Arnpryor, in the dis- 
trict of Kippen, the seat of one of the Buchan- 
ans, — a rude, independent, and care-for-naught 

* "Guidman" signifies fiarmer. 



.64 STIELING CASTLE. 

Highland chief. It happened, also, that this 
laird was entertaining a large company, and, 
like the king, had found himself short of provis- 
ions, though what he lacked in meat he made 
up in liquor, which flowed without stint, I assure 
you. In this predicament, when he was told that 
so much good venison was passing his castle, he 
did not hesitate to sally out at the head of a band 
of his wild Highlanders, and seize upon it. The 
royal keepers remonstrated against this bold act, 
which they called " high treason," warning him 
that he and his clan would have to pay dearly 
for the stolen deer, — perhaps head for head. 

But Buchanan laughed right saucily, saying, 
that if James Stuart was king in Scotland, he 
was king in Kippen, and, flinging the fattest buck 
over his shoulders, he strode into the Castle, fol- 
lowed by his men, bearing the remainder of the 
prey ; while the royal keepers rode on to Stirling, 
with lightened horses, but hearts heavy with dis- 
appointment and chagrin. 

Now, kings are quite as easily touched through 
their stomachs as through their sense of honor 
and dignity ; — in this case, you see, James might 
justly consider himself wronged and insulted in 



THE LITTLE DOUGLAS. 65 

both ways. He was hot-tempered as well as fear- 
less, so he instantly ordered his horse and set out 
alone to the castle of Buchanan. He arrived 
just as several huge haunches of his venison were 
set upon the table, and the feasting was about 
to recommence. He found a tall, broad-chested, 
long-bearded warder at tlie door, who, not recog- 
nizing the new guest, threateningly presented his 
battle-axe to him, saying gruffly that the high 
and mighty Laird of Arnpryor was at dinner, and 
must not be disturbed by such as he. But the 
king slyly slipped into his hand a piece of gold, 
— which somehow seemed to touch his heart 
at once, — and said, " Go up into the ban- 
queting-hall, my friend, and tell your master 
that the Guidman of Ballangeich has come to 
dme with the King of Kippen." 

The warder grumbled a little, but went to the 
laird, and told him that there was a troublesome 
fellow at the door, with a red beard, who called 
himself " the Guidman of Ballangeich," and 
insisted on coming in to dine with the King of 
Kippen. 

When the bold Buchanan heard this, he turned 
pale, left the table in great haste, and running 



66 STIKLING CASTLE. 

to the door, fell at the king's feet, and begged 
his pardon for making free with the royal veni- 
son, and sending such a saucy message to his 
sovereign. Now, much of the king's anger had 
evaporated in his gallop from Stirling ; he was 
tired and hungry, he smelt the smoking hot ven- 
ison, and he heard within the hall the merry 
jingling of wine-cups and the pleasant laughter 
of ladies, — so, instead of taking the laird's 
head, which would have done him no good, or 
confiscating his lands, which he did not need, he 
very sensibly concluded to show mercy to his 
rash subject, — told him to get up from his knees, 
assured him that he had only meant to give him 
a little fright, that he had really ridden up. from 
Stirling to dine with him in a neighborly way, 
and begged that he might have that pleasure, 
before the venison should get cold. So the two 
went in together, and the feast went on, without 
further interruption. 

After this, the Laird of Arnpryor mended his 
manners, and was a faithful and humble subject, 
though he was a little apt to boast to strangers 
of " His Majesty's visit to my poor castle." By 
the way, he never could get rid of the title of 
" King of Kippen." 



THE LITTLE DOUGLAS. 67 

At another time, when King James was out on 
one of his secret and solitary excursions, he was 
attacked by four or five ruffians, on the narrow 
bridge of Cramond. Being very strong and a 
good swordsman, he was able to defend himself 
for some time against all his enemies, but he 
received several slight wounds, and his strength 
was about failing him, when a peasant came run- 
ning out of a barn near by, and seeing one man 
beset by such an unfair number, generously took 
his part. This peasant was armed only with a 
flail, but with that he boldly attacked the assail- 
ants, beat upon their heads and shoulders so 
sturdily, — in short, gave them such a sound 
thrashing, that they were soon glad to take to 
their heels. He then took the king into his barn, 
gave him water and a towel to wash the blood 
from his hands and face, and afterwards walked 
with him homeward to protect him from another 
attack. 

Without letting out the secret of his own rank, 
the king asked his preserver who he was. The 
peasant answered that his name was John Howie- 
son, — that he was a poor bondsman on the farm 
of Braehead, which belonged to his Majesty. 



68 STIRLING CASTLE. 

James then asked if there was any wish which he 
had particularly at heart. 

" yes ! " replied John ; " if I could own the 
farm I labor on, I should be the happiest man in 
the world, — happier even than the king, with all 
his riches and glory ; for it is n't likely that I 
would be bothered with so many cares, or beset 
with so many enemies as he." 

The king sighed at this, and honest John con- 
tinued : " And now, if I may be so bold, please 
tell me who you are." 

"0, I 'm the Guidman of Ballangeich, — just 
a poor man who has a small office in the king's 
palace ; but if you will come to see me, next 
Sunday, I will try to recompense you for your 
assistance to-day, — at least I can show you the 
royal apartments." 

John thanked him heartily, and so they parted. 

The king did not fail to give orders that his 
country friend should be admitted, when he should 
ask at the palace-gate for " the Guidman of Bal- 
langeich." 

The peasant came at the time appointed, 
dressed in his " Sunday's best," and found the 
Guidman in the same disguise he had worn in 
his adventure on the bridge of Cramond. 



THE LITTLE DOUGLAS. 69 

James conducted his visitor through the state 
apartments, and was not a little amused by his 
simple-hearted astonishment at their splendor and 
grandeur. At length he asked if he would like 
to get a peep at the king. 

" By all means ! — if I can do so without offend- 
ing his Majesty," replied John. 

'' 0, no fear of that," said James. " ' A cat 
may look at a king,' you know." 

" But how shall I know his Grace from all 
the great nobles around him. Will he wear his 
crown ? " 

" No, but he will wear a hat, or bonnet, — all 
the rest will be bareheaded." 

He then led his friend into a great hall, filled 
with noblemen and officers of the court. John 
looked curiously about him for a moment, and 
then whispered : " Where is he ? — where is he ? 
I can't see him." 

"Didn't I tell you," said James, "that you 
would know him by his hat?" 

" r faith then," exclaimed John, '^ it must be 
either you or I, — for they are all bareheaded 
but us two." 

The king and courtiers laughed heartily at this ; 



70 STIRLING CASTLE. 

and when John Howieson left the palace, it was 
as the owner of the farm of Braehead, which he 
and his descendants were always to possess, on 
condition that the proprietor should be ever ready- 
to present an ewer, basin of water, and a napkin 
for the king to wash his hands, whenever he 
should pass the bridge of Cramond, or visit 
Holyrood Palace. This form, in remembrance of 
the service done his king by John Howieson, was 
observed by him and his family down to the time 
of George the Fourth of England. 

King James did not always show himself so 
kind and merciful as in these adventures. Though 
in general, and for those times, a just, wise, and 
generous monarch, he was in some cases very 
stern, stubborn, and revengeful. In his early 
youth he had been wronged and really oppressed 
by the Douglases, the most powerful, rapacious, 
and unruly family in Scotland, and from the time 
when he made his escape from them, and set up 
as an independent king, he devoted himself with 
all his energies to humbling and subduing these 
formidable enemies. It was a great, good work 
for the people ; but it hardened his naturally kind 
heart, and in some instances left on his memory 



THE LITTLE DOUGLAS. 71 

the reproach of injustice and cruelty. He seized 
upon the estates of all the Douglases, drove them 
out of the kingdom, and swore that he would 
never employ or show favor to any one of the 
hated name. 

How well he kept his vow we shall see in the 
following story : — 



THE LITTLE DOUGLAS. 

Among the banished Douglases, there was one 
who had been a great favorite with the King, for 
his generous and manly qualities, his personal 
strength, and skill in all warlike exercises. This 
was Archibald Douglas of Kilspindie. The king 
used to make much of him on all occasions 
of hunts and tournaments, and called him his 
" Greysteil," after a famous champion in a ro- 
ma,nce of that time. On his part, Archibald was 
devotedly attached to the king, and never lent 
his honest countenance to any plot against him. 
However, when his great family was disgraced, 
not even he was excepted, but sternly driven into 
exile with the rest, — King James, in his implac- 



72 STIRLING CASTLE. 

able hatred against the haughty race which for 
centuries had ruled, not only the Scottish peo- 
ple, but their sovereigns, being resolved to spare 
not even the friend for whom his own heart 
secretly pleaded. So Archibald of Kilspindie 
was obliged to seek a refuge in England, where 
he remained several years. 

At length, getting to be an old man, and pin- 
ing to see his dear country once more, and the 
king whom, for all his harshness, he yet loved, 
he resolved to return to Scotland and make one 
last attempt to touch his sovereign's heart. He 
went to Stirling, and one day, when the king was 
returning from the chase, threw himself in his 
way. James knew him at a distance, and said, 
with a smile, " See, yonder is my brave Grey- 
steil ! " But the next moment, he remembered 
his vow, and hardened his heart, and when he 
met his old servant, he pretended not to recog- 
nize him, but put spurs to his horse, and rode fast 
up a hill towards the castle. Poor old Archibald 
Douglas wore a heavy coat of mail under his 
clothes, but his heart so yearned for a reconcilia- 
tion with his king, that he would not let him 
pass, but ran along by his side, and kept up with 



THE LITTLE DOUGLAS. 73 

him, looking into his face now and then, with a 
wistful, reproachful, heart-breaking expression. 

But they soon reached the castle. James 
sprang from his horse and hurried in, leaving 
the Douglas without a kind word or look. The 
old man sunk down at the gate exhausted, and 
famtly asked for a glass of wine. But the warder, 
knowing the king's hatred for the whole kith and 
kin of the Douglases, gruffly refused liim this 
charitable courtesy, and sent him away. King 
James afterwards reprimanded his servant for 
this inhospitable treatment, — but I don't see 
with what reason. " Like master, like man." 

The king was the more angry at this attempt 
to soften his heart, for feeling conscious that he 
had done wrong in resisting it ; and the next day 
he sent word to old Archibald that he must pre- 
pare to go again into exile, this time to France. 

After this cruel act, he went out to amuse him- 
self with hunting. He rode furiously all the 
afternoon, and said nothing pleasant to any one. 
Towards night, he got separated from his follow- 
ers, and finally found himself lost in the deep 
forest, though* in fact he was but a short distance 
from Stirling. In this strait, he was very glad to 



74 STIKLING CASTLE. 

meet a boy, some eleven or twelve years old, who 
was picking his way on foot through a rocky 
glen. 

" Hold, sirrah ! " cried Kmg James ; " turn 
thee, and show me the way to Stirling Castle." 

The lad paused, and looked up, showing a 
proud, handsome face, though it now wore a 
half-sorrowful, half-sullen expression. 

" Thou speakest in a lordly style enough, Sir 
Huntsman," he replied ; " an' thou wert the king 
himself, thou mightest be a little more cour- 
teous, — though, i' faith, 'tis hardly likely thou 
wouldst be. However, I will guide thee to a 
spot whence thou canst see the towers of Stir- 
ling : 't is but a little way from here." 

" Thanks, my brave lad. And now, wilt thou 
tell me who thou art ? Thou hast gentle blood, 
surely." 

"I am called young Archie of Kilspindie, or 
the little Douglas," answered the boy, proudly. 

The king frowned as he rejoined : " Knowest 
thou not that that is a dangerous name to own 
in Scotland ? What dost thou here ? " 

"I came from England with my grandfather, 
Archibald of Kilspindie, who came to solicit the 



THE LITTLE DOUGLAS. 75 

king's grace, and is banished to France for his 
pains. I go with him." 

Eang James liked the fearless frankness of 
the lad, and, smiling, asked : " Hast thou ever 
seen the king thou speakest of?" 

" No, Sir Knight, nor care I to see him. I 
like him not." 

" Why, prithee ? " 

" Because he is a churlish, unprincely fellow. 
When my grandfather, who had done him no 
harm, but good service, humbled himself to 
come in his way, he forgot that 

'A king's face 
Should give grace,' 

and made him — a brave old man, — a Douglas! 
— run beside his horse, as I run beside thine ; 
and, when he fainted at his gate, would not let 
his servants give him a cup of wine." 

" Nay, nay, I — that is, he knew nothing 
of that ! " exclaimed James. Then, after a mo- 
ment, he added : " What wouldst thou say if I 
should tell thee that thou hadst been talking to 
the king himself ? " 

Archie had already begun to suspect as much, 



76 STIRLING CASTLE. 

but now he answered bravely, though with a 
deep blush: "I should say that his Majesty had 
heard honest truth for once. But, see ! — there 
is thy castle. Farewell 1 " 

" Stay," said James ; "I like thy spirit, al- 
beit thy words are rather sharp and pert. Come 
with me to the castle for a little while ; surely 
thou fearest not to go with thy king ? '■* 

" No, sire," replied the little Douglas ; " though 
I have heard say an ancestor of thine invited an 
ancestor of mine into that same castle, and then 
slew him with his own hands. I do not fear 
thee ; thou art not treacherous, — thou art only 
somewhat cruel. I will go with thee." 

When they arrived at the castle, the king 
led the way at once to the apartments of the 
queen, — the beautiful Mary of Guise, a French 
princess, — and presented Archie to her, say- 
ing : " See, I have brought your Grace a strange 
pet, — a saucy page, an unfledged eaglet, a 
lion's cub, — a young Douglas ! " 

"A Douglas! — has not your Majesty vowed 
to show no favor to one of that name ? " said 
the queen, casting an admiring glance on the 
handsome boy. 



THE LITTLE DOUGLAS. 77 

"Ay, but thou hast not," replied James. "I 
give Mm to thee. He has done me a service, 
and I am willmg that thou shouldst make much 
of him, for his own and his grandfather's sake. 
I loved Archibald of Kilspindie once." 

" Wilt thou stay with me, my bonnie lad ? " 
asked the queen, kindly laying her jewelled 
hand on the curly head of the boy. 

Archie was softened to tears by her goodness, 
and his voice trembled as he answered : " I would 
fain stay with your Grace, — not for your royal 
state, but for your sweet face and gentle voice, 
— but I must go with my grandfather. I am 
all he has in the world." 

" But," said the queen, " he is poor and old, 
and he must go away to France, which, though a 
brave, beautiful land, will seem strange and un- 
lovely to thee. Here at my court thou wouldst 
be at home, - - thou shouldst receive a knightly 
training, shouldst have money and servants at 
thy command, and my kind favor to count upon. 
Wilt thou stay ? " 

" Alas, I cannot ! — even if your Grace could 
make me prince of the realm. I could not for- 
sake my grandfather," replied the little Douglas, 



78 STIELING CASTLE. 

with noble firmness. And he went out directly 
into the cold, dark night to seek him, • — out into 
a cold, dreary world with him. He stayed beside 
him faithfully till the exile died, less of age and 
infirmities than with home-sickness and a broken 
heart, and young Archie was left alone in a 
strange land, poor and friendless, — yet happier 
than the King of Scotland, who soon after died 
of a fever, brought on by disappointment and 
remorse, in the very prime of his life. 



aJEntinrkliitrn.- 



ROBERT BRUCE 



KOBEET BEUCE. 



81 




HAVE told you that 
within view from Stirhng 
Castle is the memorable field of 
Bamiockburn, — so called from 
the stream, or hum of Bannock, 
which runs through it. The great battle here 
fought, and the hero who here immortalized 
himself, had so much to do with the history 
and fate of Scotland, that I think I must go 
back a little, and briefly relate the story of 

4# J. 



82 BANNOCKBURN. 



ROBERT BRUCE. 

This great patriot was born in 1274, probably 
at Tiirnbury Castle, Ayrshire, where he spent 
his boyhood. At the age of sixteen, he became 
Earl of Carrick, on the death of his mother. 

In his early manhood, Bruce was not so noble 
a character as Wallace. Though by blood, one 
of the most prominent candidates for the Scot- 
tish throne, he, like his father and grandfather, 
lived mostly m England, at the court of Edward 
the First, the enemy and master of his country. 

But tlie patriotism, sufferings, and heroic death 
of Wallace made a deep impression on him ; he 
began to grow restless and remorseful, and at 
last an incident occurred which was the means of 
greatly changing his life and character. Like 
the other Scottish nobles who had taken the oath 
of allegiance to Edward, Bruce was actually in 
his service, and more than once, I am sorry to 
say, fought against his own countrymen, strug- 
gling valiantly for their freedom. After one of 
tliose imequal skirmishes, inglorious for the Eng- 
lish, and doubly so for the traitor Scots who fought 



EGBERT BRUCE. 



83 



on their side, it happened that Bruce sat down 
to supper without washing his hands, which were 
somewhat stained with the blood that had dripped 
down from his battle-axe. This was observed by 
the nice English lords who sat near him, and they 
shrugged their shoulders, and whispered to one 
another, with sneers, " Look at that Scotsman, 
who is eating his own blood ! " 

These words reached, not only the ear, but the 
heart of Bruce, and filled him with horror and 
disgust, — not at the ungrateful English who, in 
spite of all his services, despised and hated hun 
for a traitor, — but for his own unnatural and 
cowardly conduct. The blood upon his hands 
might truly be called his own, for it was that of 
his countrymen, his brothers, and should have 
been as dear to him as that which flowed in his 
own veins. So guilty and sorrowful did he feel, 
that, instead of resenting the words of the English 
lords as insults, he rose up meekly from the table, 
and, going to a chapel near by, he flung himself 
on his knees, and, weeping bitterly, prayed God 
to forigve him for his great sin. His sudden and 
humble repentance seems much like that of the 
Apostle Peter, for denying his Lord ; and there 



84 BANNOCKBURN* 

was almost as much reason for it ; for next to 
the crime of forsaking and disowning our Divine 
Master, is treason to our fellow-men. 

Bruce did not stop at repentance, as too many 
do, but made a solemn vow to God to try to atone 
for his past life, by doing all that he could to re- 
gain the lost liberties of his country. So he left 
the English court and army forever, and joined 
his poor countrymen, resolved to conquer or die 
with them. 

At this time he was about thirty years of age, 
a tall, powerful, grand-looking man, who, like 
Wallace, excelled in feats of arms and gallant 
exploits. He was usually remarkably just and 
generous, but he had a quick and passionate tem- 
per, and was sometimes cruel and remorseless in 
his resentments. 

In his claims to the Scottish crown, Robert 
Bruce had a rival in Sir John Comyn, called " the 
Red Comyn," to distinguish him from another of 
the family, who, from his dark complexion, was 
named " the Black Comyn ; " and when he re- 
solved to make a brave effort to drive the English 
back where they belonged, he thought he had 
better see this rival, and try to come to some 



ROBERT BRUCE. 85 

amicable agreement with him about their mutual 
pretensions to power. So he requested an inter- 
view with Sir John Comyn, who met him in a 
church, before the high altar. During their talk, 
they unhappily came to high and abusive words. 
I hope the Red Comyn was the first to use them ; 
and, finally, Bruce, getting greatly provoked, drew 
his dagger, and stabbed his rival. He then rushed 
out of the church, and called for his horse. Some 
friends, who were with him, seeing him look pale, 
asked what was the matter. " I am afraid I have 
killed the Red Comyn," he replied. " It will not 
do to leave such a matter in doubt," said one 
of them. " We will make it certain ! " So they 
ran in and despatched the wounded man with 
their daggers. 

I tliink tliis was the most cruel and dastardly 
deed ever committed by Robert Bruce. He had 
invited Sir John Comyn to meet him, as a friend, 
and at a place where the lives of all men were 
considered sacred, and where nothing should 
have tempted him to strike even his worst enemy. 
But, as through all his life he never ceased to 
grieve and suffer for that sinful and vmmanly 
act, — as he spoke of it with tears on his death- 



86 BANNOCKBURN. 

bed, and as God and his murdered rival have 
doubtless forgiven him, long, long ago, I think 
we may as well try to judge him charitably ; — 
at least, we '11 drop the matter here. 

Bruce now publicly threw off all allegiance to 
the King of England, and, with a small army of 
devoted adherents, marched through the South 
of Scotland, took several fortified towns, and 
drove away the English invaders. His friends 
then insisted on his being crowned at Scone, the 
place where the Scots made their kings, in those 
days. There have been few men ever found 
great enough to decline kingly honors, when 
they could get a chance at them, — but in this 
case, it was really a brave and patriotic thing in 
Bruce to accept them, as they increased tenfold 
the perils of his position. Now, Edward had 
made off with the Scottish regalia some time be- 
fore, — so a crown had to be manufactured for 
this occasion, — a plain, slender rim of gold, but 
it answered quite as well, and was as becoming 
to a rude soldier, as though it had dazzled the 
beholders with marvelloas carbuncles, diamonds, 
and pearls. 

The honor of crowning Scottish monarchs be- 



EGBERT BRUCE. 87 

longed, by ancient right, to the family of Macduff, 
Earl of Fife. The Earl at that time was one of 
the renegade nobles in the service of Edward, 
and scornfully refused to perform his duty. But 
he had a sister who it seems was made of better 
stuff; — this was Isabella, Countess of Buchan, 
who, though married to another minion of the 
English, bravely declared for Bruce. Hearing 
of his present dilemma, she took possession of 
her husband's horses, and posted off to Scone, 
vowing that King Robert should be crowned by 
a Macduff, after all ! She actually placed the 
crown on his head with her own fair hands, — 
and it answered just as well, and was doubtless 
quite as agreeable to the Bruce, as though her 
haughty brother, the Earl, or a venerable arch- 
bishop, with a beard a yard long, had performed 
the rite. 

In the mean time, intelligence of the new rising 
under the new leader had reached old King Ed- 
ward, in London, and thrown him into a terrible 
rage. He set about raising an army at once, and 
hurried it off to Scotland, under the command 
of Aymer de Yallance, Earl of Pembroke. Then 
he sat down and wrote to the Pope, telling him 



88 BANNOCKBUEN. 

all about the killing of the Red Comyn, — not 
dwelling on the murder, — that was a small, ev- 
ery-day affair, but on the sacrilege of shedding 
blood in so holy a place as a church, — and the 
Pope being duly horrified, laid upon Bruce the 
awful curse of excommunication. 

Then King Edward set out himself with an- 
other army for the North, — vowing that he would 
never return till he had put down the rebellion 
and slaughtered all the rebels. But before he 
had reached the borders of Scotland, a mightier 
monarch called him hence, — and he went with 
as little delay as any common man. 

When he found that he was really dying, he 
gave directions that his dead body should be 
boiled in a cauldron, till the flesh all came off 
of the bones, — and then that the bones should 
be sewed up in a bull's hide, and carried in front 
of the army, against his foes, the Scots. But 
Edward the Second thought best to disregard 
this strange last request of his father, and had 
him decently buried in Westminster Abbey, with 
this inscription on his tomb ; " Edivard /., The 
Hammer of the Scotch ; " — a very good epitaph, 
for he was always hammering away at that people, 



ROBERT BRUCE. , 89 

— knocking them down as fast as they got up. 
But they were rid of him at last, — even his poor 
old bones never went against them, and I doubt 
if they would have frightened them much if they 
had. It was only live Edwards they cared for. 

Luckily for them, the new king was much 
inferior to the old, and after making a feeble 
attempt to carry out his father's plans, returned 
with his army to England. 

Before this, however, Bruce had suffered severe 
defeats from the English under Pembroke. Dis- 
aster followed disaster, till he was driven with his 
family and adherents into the mountains, where 
they were exposed to great hardships and perils. 
He was even obliged at last to part from his 
queen, whom, with the Countess of Buchan and 
others of her ladies, he left under his brother 
Nigel's care, in the castle of Kildrummie, Aber- 
deenshire, while he and his men took refuge in 
the island of Rachin, off the coast of Ireland. 
Here he soon received the sad news that the 
castle of Kildrummie had been taken, his brother 
killed, and the queen with her ladies carried into 
captivity. 

This was a very dark, discouraging time with 



90 BANNOCKBURN. 

Kobert Bruce, and it is not strange that he felt 
almost ready to give up his brave undertaking. 
But, it is said, a slight incident renewed his 
resolution and decided his and Scotland's fate. 
One morning, as he was lying on his miserable 
couch, he noticed a spider trying to fix a web 
to a beam over his head. Three, four, five, six 
times he tried, and failed ; and then Bruce re- 
membered that he had fought just six battles 
against the English, without success, and he said 
to himself: "K the spider succeeds this seventh 
time, I '11 take it as a lucky omen, and will try once 
more." 

The spider did succeed, and Bruce took cour- 
age, never to lose it again. 

I have always had full faith in this interesting 
little tradition, because I believe that God often 
influences the hearts of men in such unexpected 
ways and through such humble means, and be- 
cause it teaches us that in his providence not 
even spiders are to be despised. 

Soon after this incident, Robert Bruce returned 
to Scotland, to renew his struggle with the Eng- 
lish, and his unworthy countrjonen allied with 
them. I cannot begin to relate here all the ad- 



EGBERT BEUCE. 91 

ventures he met with, all the dangers he braved, 
all the hardships he endured, from that time to 
the battle of Bannockburn. 

There are many thrilling stories in Scottish 
history told of him and his adherents, especially 
of his brave and faithful followers, James Doug- 
las, familiarly called " the Good Lord James," — 
a beautiful title, which I hope he deserved, — and 
Sir Thomas Randolph, a nephew of Bruce's, and 
worthy of his blood. Some of the accounts of 
their prodigious exploits and hair-breadth escapes 
it really strains one's faith a little to believe ; but 
it is certain that they struggled long and bravely, 
and suffered much for freedom's dear sake, and 
that Bruce nobly redeemed himself from the re- 
proach of his early life. He was beset by perils 
and foes, — wronged, hated, persecuted, outlawed, 
and hunted by bloodhounds, — but he kept up 
his heart and the hearts of his followers, — was 
always prompt and fearless in action, yet patient 
in waiting, trusting in God. And this, remem- 
ber, was not for a few months alone, but weary 
years, as the great struggle he engaged in lasted 
somewhat longer than our Revolutionary war. 

kt length the decisive battle of Bannockburn 



92 BANNOCKBURN. 

was fought on the 24th of June, 1314. Bruce 
had chosen his position, and had time to pre- 
pare the field, by strewing a portion of it with 
sharp points of iron called calthorps, and by 
having pits dug, which were concealed by 
heather and brushwood, — a clever, though 
hardly fair plan for laming and entrapping the 
war-horses of the English. But King Edward's 
army was greatly superior to Bruce 's in num- 
ber, and far better armed and equipped ; so the 
Scots may be pardoned for resorting to some 
stratagems. 

The English host came up with great pomp 
and parade, resolved to spare not a soul of all 
the rebel army, but to crush at once and for- 
ever the last hope of Scottish freedom. 

The battle began in the morning, and soon 
became one of the most desperate and terrible 
engagements ever fought. Before rushing to 
the encounter, however, the Scots fell on their 
knees in prayer, imploring the aid of the Al- 
mighty arm in their cause. All Christian ar- 
mies have chaplains, who pray against each 
other as soldiers fight ; but, of course, nobody 
can suppose that God is ever on both sides. 



ROBERT BRUCE. 98 

For my part, I do not believe that He is ever 
present, helping one band or nation of his chil- 
dren to slaughter another ; but I do believe 
that He always favors freedom and justice, by 
inspiring the hearts of patriots with a sense of 
right. Men are braver and stronger fighters 
for a good conscience ; and it is better to go 
praying than cursing even into battle. 

So, though the English fought well, and 
seemed much the stronger, they were beaten, 
and driven out of Scotland, which thenceforth 
belonged to the Scots. 

True, other efforts were made, under both Ed- 
ward the Second and Third, to reconquer the 
country, but Bruce and his good generals were 
too strong for them ; and finally the latter Eng- 
lish king was glad to renounce all pretensions 
to the Scottish throne, and to give his sister 
Joanna in marriage to Robert Bruce's son Da- 
vid. True, after Bruce' s death, the Scots had a 
great deal of trouble and strife ; but the fight- 
ing was among themselves, — a succession of 
family quarrels and ci\il brawls, — they had, at 
least, that comfort. 

Robert Bruce reigned for several years, wise- 



94 BANNOCKBUKN. 

ly and prosperously, and died peacefully, at his 
favorite residence on the banks of the Clyde, 
in his fifty-seventh year. In his last moments, 
he requested his beloved Douglas to have his 
heart embalmed, and to bear it to Jerusalem, — 
fightmg his way, if necessary, through the hos- 
tile Saracens who held the Holy Land. The 
Good Douglas promised with many tears ; and 
when his royal master was dead, he collected 
a gallant train, and set out for Palestine, bear- 
ing the heart in a silver casket. 

But, on his way, he stopped for a while in 
Spain, where it happened he found King Al- 
phonso at war with the Moors ; and, thinking 
that Saracens were Saracens wherever they could 
be met with, he plunged into the fight, and was 
killed. His body was found lying over the sil- 
ver casket containing the Bruce's heart, as though 
he had thought of it last. This was carried back 
to Scotland, and buried under the high altar of 
Melrose Abbey, — which was as well for the heart, 
and no worse for the soul of the hero, which was, 
and is, safe in the keeping of God. 

The character of Robert Bruce was by no 
means perfect ; but his faults belonged mostly 



ROBERT BRUCE. 95 

to Ms time, — his virtues were all his own. He 
had a bad early training, — he began life wrong ; 
but he proved himself a true man at last, and 
left to his country not only a great fame, but a 
memory beloved and blessed forever. 

In conclusion, I will relate a little incident, 
which I consider the most beautiful thing re- 
corded of Eobert Bruce. I have called him 
Robert Bruce all along, because I think that 
simple name sounds nobler than his formal title 
of "Kmg Robert the . First." Don't it strike 
you so ? 



THE IRISH MOTHER. 

Not long after Robert Bruce had put down 
his enemies, and fixed himself firmly on the 
throne of Scotland, his brother, Edward Bruce, 
a gallant and courageous man, was invited by 
the Irish, who were in the midst of one of their 
countless rebelhons against England, to come 
over and be their leader and king. 

Robert, who loved liis brave brother very 
dearly, not only gave him an army, but went 



96 BANNOCKBURN. 

himself to assist in the noble undertaking. The 
two Bruces gained several battles at first ; but 
the English forces, which were very strong, were 
led by excellent generals, and the Irish, who, it 
seems, never did know what was good for them- 
selves, or who were their best friends, joined 
their old oppressors in great numbers, from jeal- 
ousy of their new allies. So things took an un- 
fortunate turn, and the little army of the Scots 
was obliged to give way and retreat before the 
multitude of their opponents. At last the gen- 
erous Edward Bruce was killed, and his follow- 
ers went home, wishing the Irish joy of the rul- 
ers they had preferred to him. 

Some time before this, however. King Robert 
had been recalled to Scotland by pressing duties ; 
but he went, fearing the worst, disappointed and 
sorrowful. 

The incident which I promised to relate is 
this : — 

One morning, when the Bruces were about to 
commence a hasty retreat, before a large army 
of English and Irish, whom it would be impru- 
dent to meet, and just as King Robert was about 
to mount his horse, he heard wild and piteous 



ROBERT BRUCE. 97 

cries, which seemed to come from some woman in 
great distress. 

" What is the matter ? " he asked of one of his 
guard. 

" 0, nothing, your Majesty, but a poor woman, 
a laundress, who has a new-born babe, and is not 
well enough to go on with us. She is crying 
with fear that she shall be killed by the enemy, 
and I do not doubt she will, if we leave her be- 
hind." 

What was to be done ? They had no carriages 
or carts, and there was not time to construct a 
litter to carry the poor woman and her baby. 
Most generals would not have given a second 
thought to them, knowing the great danger of a 
halt just then ; but Robert Bruce, looking round 
on his men, said, with a generous glow on Ms 
cheek, and manly tears springing to his eyes: 
" All, fellow-soldiers, let it not be said that a 
man who has once himself been a helpless babe, 
and nursed by a mother's tenderness, should 
leave a woman and her infant at the mercy of 
barbarians. In the name of God, let the odds 
and the risk be what they may, I will fight, rather 
than leave these poor creatures behind me ! So 



98 BANNOCKBUEN. 

let the army draw up in line of battle, instead of 
retreating." 

He was cheerfully obeyed by his officers and 
men, — for, thank Heaven ! nothing is so catching 
as a genuine spirit of heroism and humanity, — 
but, to the surprise of all, their enemies sheered 
off, and refused to fight. Sir Edmond Butler, 
the English general, thought from Bruce's halt- 
ing and offering battle, that he had received a 
large reinforcement, and judged it not safe to 
hazard an engagement. 

So the Scottish leader suffered no harm for his 
heroic delay ; and yet, had the result been less 
fortunate, I do not believe he would ever have 
repented of that generous and merciful deed, 
wliich I am sure you will now agree with me 
is the best and kingiiest act related of Kobert 
Bruce. 



finlitligntn. 



MARY QUEEN OP SCOTS 



L.cfe. 



n tt-"^ V. 



MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 



101 




N our route from Stirling to 
Edinburgh, we had a view of 
the ancient palace of Linlith- 
gow, once one of the noblest 
royal residences of Scotland. It stands high on 
the margin of a lovely lake, and, though in 
ruins, has still a great deal of arcliitectural 
beauty and stateliness. 

Linlithgow was at first little more than a fort, 



102 LINLITHGOW. 

built by Edward I., and afterwards occupied by 
his troops. It was taken by some of Eobert 
Bruce's men in the following clever and daring 
way. 

The English garrison was supplied with hay by 
a farmer in the neighborhood, of the name of 
Binnock, who secretly favored Bruce. The Scots 
of old were famous for stratagems ; and so, when 
one day the English governor peremptorily com- 
manded this Binnock to furnish a large quantity 
of hay, the farmer laid a plan for making him 
pay rather more than the market price for that 
article. He concealed a large band of liberty- 
loving Scots near the gate of the fort, and charged 
them to be still, until they should hear the signal- 
cry, which was to be " Call all ! call all ! " Then 
he placed in the cart several strong, brave men, 
some half-dozen of whom were his own sons, — 
all well armed and lying on their breasts, — and 
these he covered completely with hay. The 
driver was a faithful, stout-hearted fellow, who 
carried in his hand a small axe, or hatchet. Bin- 
nock himself walked behind the cart, humming a 
merry tune. The warders, seeing only the farm- 
ers with the load of hay, which they expected, 



MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 103 

opened the gates and raised the portcullis, to let 
them into the courtyard. But as soon as they 
got well under the gateway, Binnock gave a sign 
to the driver, who instantly cut the oxen free 
from the cart and started them onward, — which 
of course left the cart standing right under the 
arch of the gateway. At this very moment, Bm- 
nock shouted out his signal, " Call all ! call all ! " 
and drawing a sword, which until then he had 
kept hid under his farmer's frock, he laid about 
him famously, like the vigorous, half-barbarous 
Scot he was. The armed men leaped up from 
under the hay and rushed upon the English 
guard, who tried in vain to close the gates, or 
drop the portcullis with that cumbersome ox-cart 
in the way. Then the men in ambush outside 
came pouring in, and the castle was soon taken, 
and all the English garrison killed, or taken pris- 
oners. 

Eobert Bruce, when he became king, rewarded 
Binnock by the gift of a fine estate, which his 
family long enjoyed. I once visited at the house 
of one of the descendants of this patriotic farmer, 
Mr. Francis Bennoch, a Scottish gentleman, who, 
though living in England, still dearly loves his 



104 LINLITHGOW. 

brave fatherland. I well remember how one day, 
when I happened to notice his armorial crest, 
— the de\dce a cart and the figure of an ox, I 
think, — my friend told me this story of the tak- 
ing of Linlithgow, in his own pleasant way. 

The palace was at its highest point of splendor 
during the reigns of James TV. and V. and Mary 
Queen of Scots. Tliis famous prmcess, the 
daughter of James Y. and Mary of Guise, was 
born in an apartment on the western side of the 
palace, which is yet standing. 

Doubtless many of you have read the story of 
this unhappy queen, but I trust none of you will 
be unwilling to refresh your memories with a 
brief review of her sad, eventful life here. 



STORY OF MARY STUART. 

Wlien James Y. died, there was a great deal 
of scheming and quarrelling between two rival 
parties for the regency, — for the privilege of 
wielding the supreme power during the long 
minority of his infant daughter. The two candi- 
dates were the queen-mother, and the Earl of 



MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 105 

Arran, the nearest male relative of the princess. 
So there were disputes, battles, and troubles of all 
sorts, before Mary of Guise, a clever and high- 
spirited woman, succeeded in placing herself in 
the chair of state, — about the most uncomfort- 
able seat in the world. I cannot believe that the 
poor woman thought herself happy after all, sur- 
rounded as she was by enemies, and oppressed by 
the great cares of government ; but it is to be 
hoped that she felt she was in the way of her 
duty to her daughter and the country. 

But happily all this time the pretty little Queen 
Mary knew nothing of these great political strifes 
and intrigues. Safe and quiet in her nursery at 
Linlithgow, she slept and ate, smiled and crowed, 
cut her teeth, and learned to walk and talk as 
care-free and happy as any peasant child in all 
her kingdom. Her dark time was not yet come. 

When Mary Stuart was six years of age, she 
was sent to the French court, to be educated 
under the care of her mother's relatives. She 
was accompanied by four little ladies of rank 
about her own age, and all bearing her own 
name. These remained with her for many years, 
and were called " the Queen's Marys." 

5* 



106 LINLITHGOW. 

It must have been a pretty and touching sight 
to see the little queen and her little maids taking 
leave of their mammas, and setting sail for a far, 
strange land. How they must have cried and 
struggled and begged, titled ladies though they 
were, to go back on shore with those dear mam- 
mas I "What a dismal, damp, unsteady place the 
ship must have seemed to them, and how dark 
and deep and awful the sea must have looked to 
them, the poor little girls ! But their tears have 
all been wiped away, long, long ago, in the land 
where there is "no more sea," nor parting, nor 
grieving ; — it is pleasant to think of that. 

Mary Stuart soon became quite contented in 
J* 
her new home, and grew in beauty and accom- 

phshments, — as did her Marys, though in an 

inferior degree, of course. They would almost 

have thought it disloyal to equal their mistress, — 

liigh treason to surpass her. 

When Mary was about fifteen she married 

Francis, the Dauphin, who soon after became 

Bang of France. But not long did Mary enjoy 

the glory of being queen of two kingdoms ; her 

husband, Francis II., died after a very brief 

reign, and finding herself neglected and unkindly 



MAEY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 107 

treated at the court of liis brother, Charles IX., 
and liis mother, Catherine de Medicis, as thor- 
oughly wicked a woman as ever lived, she re- 
solved to return to her own country, where she 
was now needed, — her brave mother having died 
of disappointments and very weariness, glad it 
seemed to rest, even m the grave, from the 
trouble and turmoil of her delegated sovereignty. 
When Mary left France she was just eighteen, 

— an elegant, accomplished, and clever princess, 

— graceful, winning, and marvellously beautiful, 
if we may trust the poets and historians of her 
time. I cannot describe her, as it has never been 
exactly settled, I believe, which of the many pic- 
tures of her yet in existence is tlie true one. If 
any of you ever visit the great palace of Yer- 
sailles, you may see as many as half a dozen 
different portraits of her, as different as can be ; 
so you can have your choice. Some prefer one, 
some another. 

Scotland seemed but a poor and dismal coun- 
try to the young queen, coming from the rich, 
sunny land and gay court of France. Her Marys 
had loving mothers and kindred to welcome them 
home ; but her mother was in the grave, and she 



108 LINLITHGOW. 

had no kindred on whose love she conld depend, 
no home but gloomy castles and formal palaces. 
Ah, what a glorious tiling it is to be a queen ! 

The Scottish people, however, were very glad 
to get their legitimate sovereign back, — were 
proud of her grace and beauty, and rejoiced over 
her in their own rude, simple way. Sir Walter 
Scott relates, that, on the evening of her arrival 
at Holyrood Palace, no less than three hundred 
of the citizens of Edinburgh appeared under her 
window, and serenaded her all night long, " each 
doing his best on a three-stringed fiddle." This 
terrific serenade has not been set down by histo- 
rians among poor Mary Stuart's great trials, but 
I doubt not she found it hard enough to bear at 
the time of it. 

Queen Mary's misfortunes were of three dif- 
ferent kinds, — religious, domestic, and political. 
Her first misfortune was in being a Catholic, 
when the larger number of her people were Prot- 
estants ; her second was in marrying a handsome 
simpleton ; and her third grew out of these two. 
Her being a Papist was an enormous sin in the 
eyes of many of her Protestant subjects, which 
not all her loveliness, graciousness, and accom- 



MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 109 

plisliments could atone for. There was a cele- 
brated Protestant preacher of that time, named 
John Knox, who used to thmider away at the 
court and queen, — sometimes rebuking her to 
her face in no very respectful terms, — little 
thinking, poor man ! how full liis own stern heart 
was of bigotry and intolerance. She may have 
deserved all he said ; for she was fond of pleasure, 
and devotedly attached to her own church, for 
all its wickedness. I do not know but that, had 
she had the power, she would have burned here- 
tics in her zeal, like her cousin, Mary of Eng- 
land, — though I doubt it much, for she was not 
naturally cruel ; but I do not much doubt that 
Mr. Knox would have used gentler language in 
her presence, if she had had that power. As it 
was, his party was too strong to be put down, and 
he spoke his mind bravely, and made a clean 
breast of it. 

The husband which Mary Stuart chose, princi- 
pally for his beauty and showy accomplishments, 
was her kinsman, Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley. 
He was young, rash, self-willed, ambitious ; and, 
with little sense and less heart, was a very poor 
husband for any woman, — and the proudest 



110 LINLITHGOW. 

queen is, after all, a woman, with a heart to 
love and suffer. I think that Mary Stuart, with 
all her wit and spirit, would have regretted her 
foolish choice after a while, if her husband had 
been ever so good and faithful ; but she might 
have made the best of it, and gone on loving him 
in a dull sort of a way, and been tolerably happy, 
as the world goes. But as it was, she not only 
tired of the spoiled, passionate, faithless young 
man, but grew to hating him bitterly. This is 
how it came about : She had in her suite, as 
private secretary, a handsome Italian youth, by 
the name of David Rizzio, who was a great 
favorite with her, and whom she treated with 
rather unqueenlike familiarity. Many of the 
courtiers were enraged at this, and hated Eizzio 
with a fierce, scornful hatred, — not for any crime 
of his, — not out of envy or jealousy, — no ! but 
because, forsooth, he was a foreigner, poor and 
low-born. But no jealous noble of them all 
hated as Darnley hated. He saw the society of 
the clever and agreeable Italian preferred to his 
by Mary, who no longer tried to conceal her con- 
tempt and dislike of her husband, and he vowed 
to destroy her favorite. Now this David, like 



MAET QUEEN OF SCOTS. Ill 

David of old, was skilled in music, and Mary, 
like King Saul, loved to be soothed by his play- 
ing and singing, when she was vexed or sorrowful. 
But the time came when he sang no more sweet 
songs for her delight and consolation. One night, 
as he sat at supper with the queen and her ladies, 
in a small cabinet, Darnley and several other 
noblemen suddenly burst upon the merry Httle 
party, and murdered the Italian before the eyes 
of his mistress. Poor Rizzio clung to the dress 
of the queen, and implored her to save him, and 
she begged for liis life with prayers and tears, — 
but all in vain ! The conspirators dragged him 
through her bedchamber and the anteroom to 
the head of the stairs, where they despatched 
him with no less than fifty-six wounds. So the 
poor youth paid dearly for the queen's favor, and 
so it was that the queen grew to hate her miser- 
able husband. 

Two months after this, Queen Mary gave birth 
to a little prince, who was afterwards James 
YI., and who inherited his father's heartless- 
ness, his mother's irresoluteness, and the beauty 
of neither. 

The next favorite of Mary was a very different 



112 LINLITHGOW. 

man from the gentle, song-singing Italian, — the 
Earl of Bothwell, a dark, stern, bloody-handed 
profligate. Again the virtuous courtiers were in- 
dignant, — again the preachers thundered awaj 
at her for her misplaced fondness ; for the wicked 
earl had a wife, and she had a husband of her 
own, — such as he was. It was this Bothwell 
who brought about the next domestic misfortune, 
or crime of the queen, — the murder of her hus- 
band. This took place at a religious house, called 
" Kirk of the Field," just beyond the city walls, 
where Darnley was lodged for a time, being ill 
with the small-pox. One dark winter night, the 
house in which he lay was blown up by gun- 
powder, deposited under his chamber by the hire- 
lings of BothweU. The earl himself was present, 
and saw the awful deed accomplished. Darnley 
was found in a neighboring field, not much dis- 
figured, but dead, of course. So he paid dearly 
for being a king-consort. 

It has always been a great question with histo- 
rians whether Mary was, or was not accessory to 
the murder of her husband, and it remains a 
question which I do not think will ever be de- 
cided beyond all dispute. It is one of those 



MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 113 

secrets of human history which rest with God ; 
but, as it is pleasanter to think well than ill of 
our fellow-beings, let us hope that she was wholly 
innocent of so dreadful a crime. We can safely 
do that. 

The worst thing against Mary was her weak, 
suspicious conduct in regard to Both well, after 
the murder. She did not bring him to a fair 
trial, but continued to treat him with apparent 
favor. Perhaps she was afraid him, for he was 
very bold and powerful. But such cowardice is 
a crime in itself ; and certain it is, that most of 
her subjects believed her not only weak, but 
wicked, and began to murmur against her, and 
declare that they would no longer be ruled by the 
profligate murderess ; and when she suffered 
Bothwell to divorce his wife, and actually mar- 
ried him herself, the people broke out in open 
rebellion. 

To her great mortification, Mary found that 
her army would not fight for her and her detested 
husband, but began to disband and go over to 
their foes. Bothwell, who, like all bullies and 
assassins, was cowardly and treacherous, forsook 
his wife, and ran away from the first battle, — 



114 LINLITHGOW. 

ran till he got to the sea, where he took up the 
life of a pirate, a very proper career for him. 

Queen Mary surrendered to the confederated 
Scottish lords, who took her ui triumph to Edin- 
burgh, where the people insulted her most grossly 
as she rode through the streets, accusing her of 
murder and all sorts of crimes, which conduct 
to a humbled and defenceless woman, however 
erring, does not speak very well for the humanity 
of the people, or the magnanimity of the victors 
who conducted her. But I am afraid that many 
who were most noisy in crying out against her in 
her hour of misfortune, would have fawned at 
her feet if she had still been in power, — even if 
she had made way with as many husbands as 
Bluebeard did wives. 

Queen Mary was then imprisoned in Lochleven 
Castle, on a small island, where, with a few faith- 
ful attendants, she was strictly guarded by stern 
jailers, while her half-brother, the Earl of Mur- 
ray, assumed the regency and the guardianship 
of the young Prince James. At Lochleven Cas- 
tle, Mary spent nearly a year in sorrowful cap- 
tivity, — walking sometimes in a little mouldy 
garden, embroidermg with her maids, or looking 



MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 115 

out, from her lonely tower, across the lake, for 
deliverers that never came. At length, by her 
beauty, her smiles and tears, she so moved the 
kind heart of a young lad m the service of the 
Laird of Loclileven, one William Douglas, that 
he got possession of the keys of the castle, and at 
night let out the queen and one of her maids, 
and rowed them to the shore, where several of 
Mary's friends, some of them powerful Catholic 
nobles, were awaiting her. 

When William Douglas left the castle he locked 
the gates and flung the keys into the lake, — 
where, strange to say, they were found by a fish- 
erman, only a few years ago. 

Queen Mary soon rallied a considerable army 
of adherents, which met the regent's forces at 
Langside, and were defeated. Mary beheld the 
battle from a hill near by, and at its close, 
mounted her palfrey, her heart wild with grief 
and despair, and rode sixty miles before she 
stopped. 

She took shelter in the Abbey of Dundrennan, 
where she made up her mind to seek refuge in 
England, and place herself under the protection 
of her cousin, Queen Elizabeth. This was the 



116 LINLITHGOW. 

most fatal step in a life that was full of fatal 
steps. Queen Elizabeth hated her beautiful rival, 
and from the first treated her, not as an unfor- 
tunate sister sovereign, but as a captive and a 
criminal. For nineteen years she kept her a 
close prisoner, — only removing her from one 
gloomy castle to another more gloomy, — till at 
last she caused her to be tried for various crimes, 
and then, when the judges had pronounced her 
guilty, signed the warrant for her execution, — 
with a few strokes of the pen, condemned her to 
death. Mary Stuart was beheaded at Fotherin- 
gay on the 8th of February, 1587. 

It takes but a little time and few words to say 
that Elizabeth imprisoned her cousin Mary nine- 
teen years before beheading her, — but it was a 
long time for one woman to hold a deadly spite 
against another. It is an awful thing to think of ! 

Wearily, lonesomely, sorrowfully must those 
long, dark years have passed to poor Mary Stuart, 
— so that when death came at last, even though 
armed with the headsman's axe, he was as wel- 
come to her as was to the apostle the angel who 
delivered him from prison. 

Mary died very heroically and like a Christian, 



MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 117 

forgiving and praying for her enemies. She left 
some faithful friends, who wept for her such tears 
as all the riches of the English queen could not 
purchase, — all her power could not wring from 
any human eye. She had also a pretty pet span- 
iel, who was greatly attached to her, and had to 
be taken by force from her bleeding body, — and 
now, through nearly three hundred years, the 
dumb grief of that poor little dog seems to plead 
with our hearts for his mistress. 

Elizabeth Tudor lived without love, and so 
" without God in the world." Mary Stuart may 
have been as erring as that other beautiful Mary 
who poured precious ointment on the feet o| our 
Lord Jesus, — but she also "loved much," and 
so we may hope was forgiven. 



% 



CHnbtirgji. 



LITTLE MARGERY AND HER KITTEN. 



LITTLE MARGERY AND HER KITTEN. 



121 




'-^-^ WE had but a few 
days to spend in the 
capital of Scotland, and, 
as ill-luck would have 
it, those few days were 
unpleasant. We happened there in the begin- 
ning of the wet season, early in October, and 
the sun scarcely shone upon us during our stay. 
He came out quite bravely once in a while, but 
seemed scared at the black, ugly clouds driving 



122 EDINBURGH. 

Tip against him, and went in directly. We were 
obliged to go about sight-seeing under a big, 
dripping umbrella, or trying desperately to peer 
through a drizzling " Scotch mist," which is a 
lazy, sullen sort of a rain ; so you will not 
wonder if I seem to have rather a dim, uncer- 
tain recollection of the grand old town. 

Edinburgh has a very beautiful and imposing 
site, " upon a cluster of eminences, at the dis- 
tance of a mile and a half from the Firth of 
Forth," which you know is an arm of the sea. 
It is surrounded by a picturesque country, with 
noble wooded hills and flowery valleys, — plains 
and rivers and wild waterfalls, — parks, gardens, 
castles, and ivied ruins, — lovely and wonderful 
to see. 

Upon the loftiest eminence stands Edinburgh 
Castle, on the site where, twelve hundred years 
ago, Edwin, a Northumbrian king, first built a 
fort, around which eventually sprung up a town, 
called, in his honor, Edwinsburgh, or Edinburgh. 
In the Celtic language, this town is still called 
Dunedin, or " the Hill of Edwin." In this way 
the king carved his name and founded his fame 
on a rock, though he was probably a rude, war- 



LITTLE MAEGERY AND HER KITTEN. 123 

like prince, who could neither read nor write. 
The present castle is a very old building, and, 
from its position, so strong that it has never 
been taken by assault, though several times by 
siege, and once by surprise. 

Randolph, Earl of Moray, — Bruce's Randolph, 
— was one of the brave Scots who took it by sur- 
prise in a very bold and singular way. A Scot- 
tish gentleman' by the name of Francis came to 
him in private, and told him that, when he was 
a young man, he lived in the castle, where his 
father was keeper, and that he knew a way of 
scaling the crags and wall, unknown to any other 
soul. It seems that his father, the keeper, had 
kept him a little too strictly, shutting him up 
within the dreary fortress, as though he had 
been a prisoner, or a criminal, till he rebelled, 
and, being a brave, adventurous fellow, contrived 
a plan of nightly escape to the pleasant town 
below. He made use of a small ladder for de- 
scending the wall, and then boldly slid, or swung 
himself down the face of the steep rock, where a 
slight misstep, or a moment's giddiness, might 
have cost him his life. He always returned 
before daylight, by the same way, clambering 



124 EDINBURGH. 

up the rocks, and scaling tlie wall ; and lie was 
careful to choose dark nights for his expeditions, 
as there was great danger of his being discovered 
by the sentinels. Yet he had gone and returned 
safely many times, for, " to tell the honest truth," 
he said, '-'- there was then a bonnie lassie living 
down in the Grassmarket, who was glad to see 
me when I came, and sorry to have me go." 
When the brave soldier said this, he blushed 
through his grizzly beard and the bronze of fifty 
summers ; but his broad chest heaved with a 
great sigh when he added : " She was my wife 
afterwards ; she is dead now, and it will be, I 
confess, a sad thing for me to climb again the 
steep path I used to leap down with so light a 
heart ; yet, for my country's sake, I '11 do it. I 
am ready to lead any who are brave enough to 
follow." 

Randolph gladly accepted his offer, and one 
dark night, with a party of thirty picked, men, 
undertook the ascent of the rock, led by Fran- 
cis. They were obhged to scramble up the 
steepest portion of the way ; to swing them- 
selves from cliff to cliff, where the breaking of 
the least point of the rock, or the loosening of 



LITTLE MARGERY AND HER KITTEN. 125 

a stone, would have been a fatal accident. Their 
greatest danger was of being discovered by the 
watchmen of the fortress, as they could all have 
been destroyed by a few large stones rolled 
down the rock. While they were on their per- 
ilous way, and before they had reached the shel- 
ter of the wall, they heard the guard going its 
round, to see that all was well. The Scots 
crouched down against the dark rock, and the 
stoutest heart among them beat fast with anx- 
iety ; but what was their dismay when a stone 
came rattling down upon them, and a sentinel 
shouted from the wall : " Aha ! I see you 
well ! " Of course they thought themselves dis- 
covered ; but as they could gain nothing but 
broken limbs and necks by a precipitate flight, 
they wisely concluded to lie down and keep 
still in the friendly darkness. And it proved 
that the soldier's cry was only a trick played 
upon his comrades, who, however, laughed and 
passed on, saying : " No, no, man ; you can't 
befool us with such silly false alarms. Your 
dirty Scots must be cats or foxes, to clamber 
up such rocks as those yonder." But they 
found out their own mistake, to their cost, a 



126 EDINBUKGH. 

half-hour later, when Francis, Randolph, and 
then* men leaped over the wall, and killed or 
took captive the entire English garrison. 

Edinburgh is divided into the Old Town and 
the New Town, Wliich are so totally unlike as 
to seem like two different cities. The Old 
Town is that built within the limits of the an- 
cient walls. For several centuries, citizens did 
not think it safe to live without these bounds, 
and, as the town grew in wealth and importance, 
it became very much crowded in population, and, 
being cramped for room, the buildings seemed 
to shoot up like trees in a thick forest, to a great 
height. They could afford room but for a sin- 
gle thoroughfare of any width, — High Street, 
extending from the Castle to Holyrood Palace, 

— the houses being divided by closes^ or narrow 
alleys, so narrow, damp, and dark, that they 
looked like clefts in some bleak mountain's 
sides, in which cold, hideous shadows lurk day 
and night, driving back the light and warmth, 

— into which, it would seem, the cheery little 
sunbeams dare not drop, for fear of losing them- 
selves and being forgotten, and not able to an- 
swer for themselves when the father-sun calls 
home his children at night. 



LITTLE MARGERY AND HER KITTEN. 127 

These queer old monster houses look dismal 
enough now-a-days, — gray, and almost totteruig 
with age, and nearly blind, with their narrow 
windows dim with dirt, and half-ungiazed ; but 
they were more cheerful, as well as grander 
edifices, in their time. Each house was built 
to accommodate several families, — as many as 
there were stories, or flats ^ which ranged from 
five to ten or twelve, — all reached by a com- 
mon staircase. It was more like a pile of 
houses, layer on layer, than a single building. 
The first floor was considered the most honor- 
able ; after passing that, the higher you went in 
flats, the lower you sunk in gentility, till, 
strange to say, when you reached the attic, you 
were set down among the lower classes. Now, 
all the rich and titled and learned people have 
emigrated to modern houses in New Town, and 
tliere is not such a difference between families 
who uihabit those crazy, gigantic houses in Old 
Town ; they are all dignified and dirty, ragged 
and respectable alike. The New Town lies to 
the northward of the Old, and is very neatly 
and elegantly built, — its handsome edifices look- 
ing all the more beautiful and comfortable in 



128 EDINBURGH. 

contrast with the grand but gloomy old piles 
which frown above, — many of them packed full 
of poverty and wretchedness. 

Our first visit was to the Castle, from whose 
walls we should have enjoyed a wide, magnificent 
view, had it not been for that provoking mist. 
In the old palace of Queen Mary, a part of the 
Castle, we were shown the room in which King 
James the Sixth was born. It is very small, — 
scarcely more than a closet, and is only lighted 
by one little window, which opens directly on the 
dizzy, jagged precipice. This was a dismal asy- 
lum for the poor young queen in her sorrow, 
and a dark, prison-like place for the royal babe to 
open his eyes upon for the first time ; yet I doubt 
if he minded it. 

In anotlier apartment is kept the Scottish re- 
galia, which consists of a crown, • a sceptre, a 
sword of state, and a treasurer's mace. These 
are splendid mementos of dead royalty. The 
crown sparkles and glows with many precious 
stones. It is not known how old this is, so we 
cannot tell how many royal brows have ached 
under it. Those costly stones really seem alive, 
— they twinkle and quiver so, — and yet they 



LITTLE MAKGERY AND HER KITTEN. 129 

are cold, hard, unfeeling things, living on and on, 
and gayly sparkling, while their great and lovely 
wearers decay and die. Mary Stuart once wore 
that crown, and in her rich royal robes, with 
courtiers kneeling at her feet, and music swelling 
around her, and those brilliant gems making a 
glory about her head, she must have seemed more 
like a goddess than a mortal woman. Now, it 
is very sad to look on the red glow of those 
rubies, and on the keen flash of those diamonds, 
and think how soon the rose of life faded from 
her fair cheek, and the light went out in her 
beautiful eyes. 

From the Castle, we walked down High Street, 
through the Canongate, — once the Court end of 
the town, but now one of its most dismal and 
dilapidated quarters, — to the Palace of Holyrood. 
On our way we stopped to see the old house of 
John Knox, Queen Mary's stern reprover. It is 
a quaint, brown edifice, moss-grown and mouldy. 
As you approach it, you see before you the rough 
old Reformer himself, in the act of preaching the 
very longest of his long sermons, — that is, a 
stone effigy of him, which seems to be haranguing 
the passers-by. 

6* I 



130 EDINBURGH. 

"We also passed Moray House, the ancient town 
mansion of the earls of that name, and the Scot- 
tish head-quarters of Cromwell ; and Queens- 
bury House, in old times the residence of the 
dukes of Queensbury, but in these days actually 
an almshouse. I wonder if the paupers are any 
happier for being in such an aristocratic asylum, 
and I wonder if they ever play at gentility among 
themselves, and make believe they are dukes and 
duchesses ? 

Holyrood Palace was added to an Abbey by 
that name, founded by David the First. It was 
nearly all destroyed by Cromwell, but was rebuilt 
in the old style, by Charles the Second. Fortu- 
nately the portion of the palace spared was the 
northwestern angle, which contained the apart- 
ments of Queen Mary. We ascended to these by 
a stone staircase, very unlike the grand marble 
stairways of modern palaces, and came first to a 
vestibule, where the guide showed us some spots 
upon the floor, which he said in a solemn whis- 
per were poor Rizzio's blood. We did not dis- 
pute him, but I am afraid we did not look quite as 
awestruck as he expected, for in that dark place 
it was extremely difficult to make out any spots 



LITTLE MARGEEY AND HER KITTEN. 131 

at all ill the floor, though some folks have seen 
them very plamly, and of quite a lively red, — so 
they say. 

Next we were shown the queen's presence 
chamber, — a large, handsome apartment, out of 
which opens the queen's bedchamber, which is 
yet very much as Mary Stuart left it, except that 
the paintings are faded and the hangings decayed. 
It gives one a strange feeling to look upon the 
very bed on which she slept, and the silk coun- 
terpane that covered her, so many, many years 
ago. That old counterpane, — how often it must 
have been heaved up by the proud and indignant 
beatings of her passionate heart, or shaken by 
wild sobs, in lonely nights, when her sorrows 
came upon her ! Then there was an ancient mir- 
ror which she had used, and 0, how I longed to 
have it show me, but for one instant, the beauti- 
ful face it had reflected a thousand times ! This 
is a pleasant chamber, and though by no means 
very splendid, it is, to all readers of Scottish his- 
tory, one of the most interesting apartments in 
the world. Opening out of it is the small cabi- 
net, in which the queen, one or two of her ladies, 
and David Eizzio, once sat at supper, — the last 



132 EDINBURGH. 

supper of the poor Italian, when Darnley and the 
other assassins burst in upon them. The private 
staircase by which they ascended from the apart- 
ments of the king-consort was shown to us, — a 
dark, ugly passage, — just such a one as you 
would expect murderers to make use of, in steal- 
ing on their prey. 

We afterwards walked through the picture gal- 
lery, where we were shown more than a hundred 
portraits of Scottish monarchs, which nobody be- 
lieves in. It is said they were painted but a few 
years ago, for country visitors to gape at, and 
that a burly palace porter sat for many of them. 
I think it likely, for the daubs are quite fresh, 
and there is a strong family likeness running 
through them. 

We visited also the beautiful ruins of the 
chapel in which Mary Stuart was married to 
Darnley, and where he was buried, after having 
been blown up by his enemies. 

Back of Holyrood Palace lie the open grounds 
called "the queen's park," — the qaQen''s pas- 
tures would be a truer name, as they are nearly 
destitute of trees. These include the height 
called Arthur's Seat, and Salisbury Crags, — 



LITTLE MARGERY AND HER KITTEN. 133 

which we did not visit, but advise you to, if you 
ever get a chance. We did ascend Calton Hill, 
however, — a noble eminence in the town, beau- 
tifully laid out with walks, and crowned with a 
monument to Lord Nelson, — a great idol, a sort 
of sea-god of the British nation, who, with the 
Duke of Wellington, is sculptured and painted, 
and pillared and carved, and busted and monu- 
mented, all over the three kingdoms. Near this 
shaft is what is called " The National Monu- 
ment," — the beginning of a splendid temple in 
honor of the Scotsmen killed in the last war with 
France, — thirteen white marble pillars, which 
cost a thousand pounds apiece. The people's 
patriotism .or purses gave out, and the temple 
will probably never be finished, but it will make 
a fine little ruin for travellers to admire, and 
learned men to dispute about a thousand years 
hence. 

There is also on this hill a tasteful monument 
to the poet-ploughman, Robert Burns, whom the 
Scottish people do well to honor. But the chief 
pride and beauty of Edinburgh New Town, is 
the monument to Sir Walter Scott, a gothic 
tower, noble and imposing, yet very graceful and 



134 EDINBURGH. 

beautiful, like his great and wonderful genius, 
the glory of his native land, and the delight of 
the world. 

I have not space here to touch upon half of the 
interesting sights and peculiarities of Edinburgh, 
nor to tell you how charmed I was (in spite of 
the weather) with that quaint, romantic, and 
most singular place ; but, in other chapters, I will 
tell you somewhat more. Though this dear old 
town does not contain such splendid cathedrals 
and palaces as many foreign cities can boast, I 
am happy to say that it has a great number of 
noble institutions, — palaces of learning, and hos- 
pitals for the sick and unfortunate, asylums for 
the old and destitute, — God's houses, if he has 
any on earth. 

I do not mean to give you the history of any 
king, queen, or great personage whatever in this 
chapfer, — I am merely going to amuse you with 
a simple, true little story, which I have laughed 
over more than once. I shall tell it in my own 
way, and if any of you think, from the title, it 
will be more fooUsh than profitable, why, just 
skip it. 



LITTLE MARGERY AND HER KITTEN. 135 



LITTLE MARGERY AND HER KITTEN. 

In the good old days, when the Scottish people 
had a parliament of their own, and the Scottish 
nobility and gentry had not thought of forsaking 
Old Town, in one of those immense High Street 
houses which seemed to contain a little world in 
themselves, there lived an advocate by the name 
of Ramsay. 

Now, the Ramsays were of very good family 
indeed, — they occupied the second flat, and 
looked down with some contempt, I fear, upon 
the occupants of the stories above them, when- 
ever they met them on the wide common stair- 
way, which went up and up, and dwindled off 
and off, like Jack's beanstalk, till it ended, not in 
a wicked giant's palace, but at the door of the 
topmost attic room, where lived a funny little 
dwarf, who made toys for good children. On the 
first flat lived Lord Glenalbin, a celebrated judge, 
to whom the advocate and his family looked up 
with great reverence, especially when they met 
him on the stairs, dressed in his flowing black 
robes and big white wig, on his way to court. 



136 EDINBUEGH. 

Then there was something grand, ahnost awful, in 
his appearance, — in his solemn way of taking 
snuff, in his stern gait, every footstep falling as 
though it decided the fate of some poor criminal. 
The Kamsays had two daughters, Phemie and 
Margery, — both very pretty, but very unlike. 
Phemie was a wild, mischievous girl, who dearly 
loved a frolic, and would not deny herself a joke, 
or a bit of sport, even if it must be at the expense 
of her best friend, or of a harmless, defenceless 
dumb creature. I never heartily like such chil- 
dren, though they sometimes amuse me. They 
don't wear well at home, — they are too like 
India sweetmeats, too spicy for every-day use. 
Very different was her younger sister, Margery, 
— a sweet, gentle, tender-hearted little girl, who 
loved fun well enough, but loved love better. 
Margery was her father's darling, but her mother, 
who was a tall, red-haired, mettlesome woman, 
liked Phemie best, for she said : " She is a lassie 
o' spirit, and no sic a saft, timorous, wee thing 
(not such a soft, timid, little thing) as the bairnie, 
Margery, — the Lord care for her, for she is one 
of his ain puir bleeting lammies ! " (one of his 
own bleating lambkins). 



LITTLE MARGERY A^^D HER KITTEN. 137 

Margery was very fond of pets. She had caged 
birds within doors, who sung their very sweetest 
for her, and tame pigeons without, who came 
daily to feed from her hands at the window ; 
and, finally, her good father brought her homo 
the dearest pet of all, — a pretty, gentle, playful 
kitten. 

These were friends and playfellows for Mar- 
gery, but Phemie only took delight in teasing 
them, and they in return feared and disliked her. 
The birds ruffled up their feathers and scolded at 
her from their cages, and even the meek young 
kitten, at sight of her, allowed an unbecoming 
anger to bristle in her whiskers, hump up her 
back, and swell out her taper little tail. 

But we must return to Lord Glenalbin. It 
happened that the close which divided this house 
from its neighbor was very narrow, — not over six 
feet wide, and that across the way lived another 
lordship, a friend to the judge. On fine morn- 
ings, before going to Court or Parliament, these 
two noblemen often enjoyed what the Scotch call 
" a crack," that is, a chat, together, each leaning 
out of his chamber window. 

One morning, when they were very earnestly 



138 EDINBUEGH. 

engaged discussing some great political matter, 
the little girls, Phemia and Margery, were look- 
ing down upon them from the window above. 
Suddenly, Phemie ran away, but came back soon, 
laughmg roguishly, and bringing Margery's kit- 
ten with a long silk cord tied about its middle, 
and in spite of the tearful entreaties of the little 
girl, who dared not openly resist any whim of her 
giddy and headstrong sister, she swung the poor 
scared creature over the window-seat, and let her 
down, down, and dropped her right on to his lord- 
ship's big white wig ! Then, a little frightened 
at her trick, she began to pull in ; but pussy, 
frantic tvith fright, fixed her sharp claws into the 
wig, and hung on desperately, so when she rose, 
the wig rose with her. Just imagine his lord- 
ship's surprise and horror, on feeling his wig lifted 
from his head, and seeing it go whirling up into 
the air, as though carried by invisible hobgoblins, 
— for at first he could not see the kitten and cord. 
But his friend over the way had seen the whole 
affair, and laughed uproariously at his ridiculous 
plight, — which did not help him take it good- 
humoredly. But his lordship was not, after all, 
very stern and haughty, though he felt it his duty, 



LITTLE MARGEEY AND HER KITTEN. 139 

as a judge and a nobleman, to appear so, — and 
though justly shocked and indignant at tlie saucy 
trick that had been played upon him, when Mrs. 
Ramsay herself came hurrying down, all a-trem- 
ble with terror, and made a humble apology for 
her giddy-brained little girl, he was good enough 
to unbend and cool down, and to say, as he re- 
adjusted the wig on his noble head : " Weel, weel, 
my guid woman, dinna fash yoursel', — there 's 
na muckle harm done, — bairns will be bairns." 
(Well, well, my good woman, — don't trouble 
yourself, — there 's not much harm done, — chil- 
dren will be children.) 

When Mrs. Ramsay came back from this inter- 
view she rated her wild daughter soundly. 

" What will you be aboot neixt ? — ye ne'er do 
weel ! Can ye no turn your hand to something 
mair (more) respectable than dangling cats oot o' 
the window to catch honest men's wigs ! — and 
will naething (nothing) content ye, but a judge^s 
wig, a laird's wig, ye saucy hizzie ! As for the 
wee bit baudrons (the httle cat), I '11 tell ould 
Davie to gie her a toss into the loch, wi'a stane 
aboot her neck." (I '11 tell old David to give her 
a toss into the lake, with a stone about her neck.) 



140 EDINBURGH. 

Poor Margery was filled with grief and liorror 
at these words. She did not try to plead with 
her angry mother, but, folding her kitten close 
in her pinafore, she stole out of the room, ran 
down to the first floor, and asked the porter if 
she might see Lord Glenalbin. lie was gone to 
the Parliament House. Would you believe it, 
this timid little girl, brave now for her dear pet's 
sake, followed the judge even to that awful place ! 
The Court was not yet opened ; and, without 
much difficulty, Margery found his Lordship, in 
the midst of a group of members of Parliament 
and advocates, amusing them with an account 
of his being so strangely unwigged that morn- 
ing. 

You see, he thought he would tell the story 
first, and laugh with the others, for he knew his 
friend would not keep such a good joke to him- 
self. Little Margery crept up to his Lordship, 
and pulling at his long black robe, raising her 
soft, sad, appealing eyes to his face, and lifting 
up her kitten, who had just then given a piteous 
mew, she said : " Please, my laird, forgive my 
wee kitten, for lifting your lairdship's wig off 
your lairdship's head ! She did na ken (did 



LITTLE MARGERY AND HER KITTEN. 141 

not know) whose wig it was. Mitlier is sae 
sair fashed aboot it (is so troubled about it) 
that she says auld Davie shall drown my pet. 
Oh! will you no forgive the puir beastie, for I 
canna see her gang awa to dee ! — it gars me 
greet to think o' it " (I cannot see her go away 
to die! — it makes me cry to think of it). And 
the poor child burst into tears. 

" Hush, hush, my bonnie bairnie,'* said Lord 
Glenalbin, " they shall na kill your pet. Here, 
I '11 write her pardon ; tak' it to your mither, 
and, I '11 answer for it, she will na harm a single 
hair o' the wee baudron's head. But mind, 
lassie, ye must na do it again, — you are ower 
young (too young) to angle for big wigs." 

Margery did not tell him that she was not 
the saucy angler, — she thought that would not 
be generous to her sister ; she took the paper, 
hum])ly thanked his Lordship, and ran home. 

When Mrs. Ramsay read the lines her little 
daughter brought from Lord Glenalbin, she not 
only forgave pussy, but took her into great favor, 
though she never could abide cats before. She 
continued to befriend her, and nursed her in 
her old age, — for she considered that cat as 



142 EDINBURGH. 

having been the making of her family, by bring- 
ing them into some connection with the nobility. 
And so she had, for Lord Glenalbin took a great 
fancy to his little petitioner, Margery, which 
lasted all his life ; and I have either heard, or 
dreamed, that his noble young son, who inherited 
his title and estates, inherited this fancy also, 
and that Margery finally became Lady Glen- 
albin, and made one of the prettiest Ladyships 
in all Scotland. 



CHnhtirgti 



THE MARQUIS OF MONTROSE 



THE MAEQUIS OF MONTEOSE. 



145 




THE principal religious edi- 
fice of Edinburgh is the Ca- 
thedral of St. Giles, founded 
some time in the fourteenth 
century, and named after the patron saint of 
this town ; for it is a Catholic belief that saints 
not only act as guardians and mediators for in- 
dividuals, but often take whole cities and coun- 
tries under their protection. 

St. Giles's Cathedral, or the High Church, as 

7 J 



146 EDINBUKGH. 

it is now called, is not a very beautiful building, 
but it lias a venerable look, and has many inter- 
esting historical associations. It was here that 
James the Sixth took leave of his Scottish sub- 
jects, as he was about to proceed to England, to 
succeed Elizabeth ; and it is recorded that the 
people actually " ivept " at losing him. But in 
St. Giles's Cathedral occurred a yet more impor- 
tant event than this royal farewell. Here, on the 
13th of October, 1643, was sworn to and sub- 
scribed by the Committee of Estates in Parlia- 
ment, the Commission of the Church, and the 
English Commission, the Solemn League and Cov- 
enant between the English Puritans and the Scot- 
tish Presbyterians. Another league, called the 
National Covenant^ had six years before been 
adopted by the Scottish people alone, as a defence 
against the encroachments of Prelacy, or Episco- 
pacy. Now, in this chapter, and the one which 
will follow, I shall try to give you a clear, though 
brief account of these Covenants and the Cove- 
nanters, as no one can have a good idea of the 
history of Scotland without fully understanding 
the religious questions about which the people and 
their rulers differed so long and bitterly. You 



THE MARQUIS OF MONTROSE. 147 

will not find this account amusing, but I hope I 
know you too well, dear children, to fear that you 
will turn away dissatisfied from the serious rec- 
ords of history, or the plain words of instruction. 
The reformation in Scotland was much more 
thorough and hearty than in England. Some of 
the reformers were too stern, hard, and unchari- 
table ; but they had a stern, hard work to do, and 
so much persecution to endure, that it is little 
wonder, they could not keep themselves in a very 
amiable frame of mind. Most of them were hon- 
est and earnest men, who had the good of their 
country and the glory of God at heart. The 
forms and titles of the English Church were not 
very different from those of the Church of Rome, 
though the king was declared its head, instead of 
the Pope. But the Kirk of Scotland was as oppo- 
site as possible to the Church of Rome, in its 
forms and government. The Presbyterian system 
was simple and strictly republican. The affairs 
of the kirk were administered by representatives, 
meeting in assemblies, and elected by votes, and 
no great head of the Church was acknowledged, 
except Christ himself. The Scottish people went 
out in a great body from the Church of Rome, 



148 EDINBURGH. 

because tlieir consciences condemned its corrup- 
tions, and their proud spirits rebelled against its 
tyranny. The English people were mostly driven 
out, by their hot-headed king, Henry the Eighth, 
who had taken a spite against the Pope ; and for 
many years they secretly longed to get back, and 
clung for dear life to as many of the Eomish 
forms and ceremonies as their Pope-kings would 
allow them. So it could hardly be expected that 
there would be much sympathy between the Eng- 
lish and Scotch Protestants, though there was 
really very little difference between the doctrines 
they professed. King James the Sixth, who was 
never more than half a man, showed no affection 
or gratitude toward the Protestant clergy, through 
whose power he had been placed on his poor 
mother's throne. The stern old Presbyterian 
preachers were little to his taste. They refused 
to flatter him, but bolted out their disagreeable 
truths, and thundered forth their rough reproofs 
and admonitions to his face. On one occasion, 
when an uncommonly free-spoken divine was 
preaching before him, the storm of pious rebuke 
came so hot and heavy that the king, jumping to 
his feet, called out, angrily : " Speak sense, mon, 
or come down fra the pulpit ! " 



THE MARQUIS OF MONTROSE. 149 

The minister grew very red in the face, but 
answered, with becoming spirit : " I tell thee, 
mon, I will neither speak sense nor come down 
fra the pulpit." 

When, in 1603, James was called to the Eng- 
lish throne, he determined to unite the religions 
as well as the governments of the two nations ; 
and disliking Presbyterianism, he resolved that it 
should be made to yield to Episcopacy, and that 
Scotland should "conform" to England. His 
first tyrannical act was to punish by banishment, 
and in other ways, six clergymen, for holding a 
general assembly without his leave. He next 
caused measures to be passed by the Parliament 
at Perth, restoring the order of Bishops, which 
the Kirk had abolished. Then, by threats and 
bribery, he effected the passage of laws intro- 
ducing the rites and ceremonies of the English 
Service into the Scottish Church. The day when 
Parliament ratified these new laws, called the 
Five Articles of Perth^ was long after spoken of 
as " the black Saturday." " Alas ! Scotland had 
many such black days ! The larger part of the 
clergy and laity refused to accept the new forms 
of worship, and were cruelly punished for non- 
conformity. 



150 EDINBUKGH. 

In 1625 James the Sixth died, and was suc- 
ceeded by his son, Charles the First, who, you 
will recollect, was put to death by Cromwell 
and his party, in 1649. He had some amiable, 
manly qualities, — he was a good husband and 
father, which is more than could be said of many 
of the Stuart family, — but he was not a good 
king, and he has been pitied more than he 
deserved, I think, — chiefly because he was an 
elegant, accomplished prince, — dignified, melan- 
choly, handsome, and wore his hair in long, 
glossy curls over his shoulders. It is very hard 
to lose one's head, even if it has never been 
anointed and worn a crown ; but Charles put 
his to no good use, and by his foolish acts seemed 
bent upon getting rid of it. He was rash, obsti- 
nate, unreliable, and despotic. One of his most 
foolish and fatal undertakings was to carry out 
his father's plan of making the Scots conform to 
Episcopacy. He ordered his English bishops to 
prepare a Liturgy, or Book of Common Prayer, 
for the Scottish Church, and sent down his most 
royal commands that it should be universally 
adopted by the clergy and people. 

Sunday, July 23d, 1637, was the day appointed 



THE MARQUIS OF MONTKOSE. 151 

for the introduction of the new service-book into 
the churches of Edinburgh. A multitude of peo- 
ple, including all the great lords and magistrates 
of the city, assembled at the High Church of St. 
Giles. The Dean of Edinburgh was to officiate, 
and at the time set for the service, he came out 
of the vestry, dressed in his surplice, and trying 
to look solemn and priest-like, but evidently feel- 
ing not a little nervous and awkward. He passed 
to the reading-desk, and began reading the ser- 
vice, in a loud, but rather unsteady voice, while 
the people looked on silently, — some curious and 
wondering, as though at a show, but the greater 
part sullen and indignant. Among those who 
showed most horror and anger was an old woman 
by the name of Jenny Geddes. She was not 
learned, nor great, — she was only the keeper of 
a green-grocer's stall in High Street, — but she 
was a dame of spirit, and a stanch Presbyterian, 
who hated Episcopacy next to Romanism, and 
Romanism next to the Evil One himself. This 
morning she sat on a little stool, near the desk, 
— but sat very uneasily from the first, — boiling 
over with indignation. When the Dean came 
out in his robes, she tossed her nose in the air 



152 EDINBUEGH. 

with disgust, and muttered something about "Po- 
pish rags." Then she drummed impatiently with 
her foot, fidgeted, and frowned, and took snuff, 
and glowered at him with her twinkling black 
eyes. At length, when he came to announce the 
" Collect " for the day, it seemed she could con- 
taui herself no longer, but springing to her feet, 
she caught up her stool and flung it at the poor 
Dean's head, calling out at the top of her shrill 
voice : " Deil colick the wame o' thee, thou 
fause thief ! dost thou say the mass at my lug ? " 
which, translated into plain English, means, I am 
sorry to say, something very like this : " The Evil 
One give thee the colic, thou false thief! dost 
thou dare to say the mass in my ears ? " A very 
unkind and impolite wish, certainly ; but those 
were rude times you know, and Dame Janet was 
very much excited. The throwing of her stool 
was the signal for a general uproar. All the 
women of the congregation rushed towards the 
desk, threatening to tear the surplice from the 
Dean's shoulders ; but he very prudently slipped 
it off, and while they were ripping and rending it 
to pieces, made his escape, and ran like a fright- 
ened hare till he reached his covert, the Deanery. 



THE MAEQUIS OF MONTROSE. 153 

Then the Bishop of Edinburgh mounted the 
pulpit to call the people to order ; but he soon 
dismounted, for he was not only saluted by cries 
of " a Pope ! a Pope ! " and other hard names, 
but by a regular storm of stools, and even stones ! 
for the men, grown as courageous and excited 
as the women, were all up in arms, and chose 
rather to fight than to pray in the new way. 

This riot was the beginning of a stout and uni- 
versal resistance to the introduction of the service- 
book. The king was as obstinate as his subjects, 
and sent commands to the magistrates to punish 
the rioters severely, and enforce the reading of 
the Liturgy. Then the people banded together, 
and drew up and signed the great National Cove- 
nant^ by which they bound themselves to oppose 
Episcopacy and defend Presbyterianism with their 
lives. Hundreds of thousands eagerly signed this 
covenant, though they knew it might expose them 
to persecution, and even to martyrdom. Some 
signed it with one hand raised to heaven and 
tears streaming down their cheeks, — and some 
drew blood from their arms and dipped their pens 
in it, to make their oaths more solemn. Such a 
people as this were a match for any tyrant, as 
7* 



154 EDINBUEGH. 

King Charles found to his cost. After declar- 
ing war against his rebellious Scottish subjects, 
and fighting several battles with the Covenant- 
ers, he was obliged to abandon his purpose, and 
make to them some important concessions. It 
was to a Scottish army that he finally surren- 
dered himself, and, I regret to say, it was a 
Scottish army that sold him to the English Par- 
liament. 

When Charles the First was put to death, the 
Parliament of Scotland resolved to support his 
son, Charles the Second, provided he would sign 
the Covenant. This he did, though he hated 
Presbyterianism even more than his father and 
grandfather had done. He said it was not " the 
religion for a gentleman," — a singular objec- 
tion for a prince to make, who, it seemed, did 
not think any folly or vice ungentlemanly. 

Charles signed the Covenant for nothing ; his 
Scottish army was not strong enough to contend 
with the English forces, and he was obliged to 
retire to the Continent, and there remain till 
after the death of the great Protector, Crom- 
well. That old lion out of the way, he came 
back to England, and ascended the throne; and 



THE MARQUIS OF MONTROSE. 155 

the people rejoiced as though this had been a 
happy event, and not, what it proved, a heavy 
misfortune. 

One of the most marked men of the time of 
which I have written was the Marquis of Mon- 
trose, of whose eventful history I will give you 
a brief sketch. 



THE STORY OP MONTROSE. 

In the more prosperous part of the reign of 
the first Charles, there appeared at his court a 
young nobleman, who eclipsed all the courtiers 
in graceful accomplishments, all the wits in ge- 
nius, all the scholars in learning, and the king 
himself in beauty and dignity. This was the 
Marquis of Montrose, a brave soldier, and, what 
is better, a noble poet. He not only wrote 
poetry himself, but has been the innocent cause 
of a great deal of poetry in others, for there 
was much that was splendid in his character 
and romantic in his career. He had a rash, 
fiery spirit ; he was too ambitious, and some- 
times too unscrupulous and unforgiving ; but 



156- EDINBURGH. 

he was never mean or cruel, and never sought 
to advance himself by false, underhanded means. 

The young Marquis was not favored or distin- 
guished by King Charles as he felt that he de- 
served to be, and, in his proud resentment, 
retired to Scotland and declared for the Cove- 
nant. It was a great pity that he was not act- 
uated by principle^ instead of pique, in taking 
this step. However, the Covenanters received 
him with open arms, and the king soon had 
cause to repent having turned the cold shoul- 
der to him. The Lords of the Covenant em- 
ployed him in several important undertakings. 
At the battle of Newburn, he performed a very 
gallant exploit. He forded the Tyne alone, under 
a hot fire of the English, to ascertain the depth 
of the water, before leading over his regiment. 

But, for all his brave deeds and valuable ser- 
vices, the Lords of the Covenant were envious 
or stupid enough to slight him, and advance 
above him the Duke of Argyle, a cunning, crafty 
man, who pretended great devotion to his coun- 
try, but in his close, dark heart was selfish, 
scheming, and revengeful. 

The families of Argyle and Montrose had been 



THE MAKQUIS OF MONTROSE. 157 

at enmity for centuries. The present Duke was 
the personal foe of the Marquis ; so Montrose was 
doubly angered and mortified at his being pre- 
ferred to him. He grew sullen and dissatisfied. 
He had never really liked Presbyterianism : it 
was too strict and solemn for him, a gay young 
nobleman, who loved pomp and pleasure, and 
magnificent dress ; and now he felt only contempt 
and aversion for both Covenant and Covenanters. 
In this state of mind, the king had little trouble 
in winning him over to the royal cause, to which 
he ever after remained faithful. He became the 
leader of the Scottish cavaliers, the most popular, 
gallant, and splendid of them all. He suflx;red 
some severe defeats at first ; but he kept up his 
great heart and persevered, till finally the praise 
and the fear of him filled the kingdom. He took 
town after town, and won battle after battle. 
The king sent him a commission, naming him 
Captain-General and Lieutenant-Governor of 
Scotland; then, just as he was flushed with the 
generous hope of being able to march into Eng- 
land and put down all King Charles's enemies 
there, his reverses came upon him. He lost the 
battle of Philiphaugh, upon the borders, and was 



158 EDINBURGH. 

obliged to retreat to the Highlands, when so 
many of his followers basely deserted him that 
the king commanded him to save himself by leav- 
ing the kingdom. He reluctantly obeyed, and in 
disguise escaped to Norway. He remained abroad 
until after the beheading of the king, when he 
transferred his allegiance to Charles the Second, 
and, with a small army of Germans and Scotch 
exiles, landed in Scotland, to strike for the rights 
of the prince. It was a rash enterprise, and 
speedily failed. In their first engagement with 
their powerful enemies, the royalists were de- 
feated, and Montrose himself was obliged to as- 
sume a mean disguise to make his escape. He 
wandered about till he was exhausted by hunger 
and fatigue, when he allowed himself to be taken 
prisoner by a Scotch laird, one MacLeod, — feel- 
ing sure, in his noble, unsuspecting heart, of pro- 
tection, as MacLeod had once been a follower of 
his. If any of that man's blood ran in my veins, 
I should blush to own the truth, that he deliv- 
ered up his old friend and chief for a miserable 
reward. 

The Covenanter leaders were mean enough to 
treat their unfortunate captive with cruelty and 



THE MAKQUIS OF MONTEOSE. 159 

insult. They took him from town to town, ex- 
hibiting him in his humble disguise, — mocking 
him and railing at him. The people of the town 
of Dundee alone, though they had once suffered 
severely from the excesses of his troops, showed 
themselves forgiving and magnanimous. They 
supplied him with money and clothing suited to 
his rank, and refused to treat him like a common 
criminal. 

Before Montrose reached Edinburgh, he had 
been condemned to death, as a traitor, by the 
Parliament, without a trial. He was sentenced 
to be hanged by the common hangman, on a gib- 
bet thirty feet high, — his head to be placed on 
the Tolbooth (the prison), his body to be quar- 
tered, and placed on the gates of the principal 
towns of Scotland. By the order of that same 
vindictive Parliament, he was met at the gates by 
the hangman, dressed for the time in the Mon- 
trose livery, and conducted to jail on a cart, bound 
and bareheaded. It was expected that he would 
be overcome by this humiliation and the insults 
of the populace ; but he bore himself so grandly, 
and looked about him with such noble dignity 
and calmness, that the rude rabble, instead of 



160 EDINBUEGH. 

jeering, were awed into silence or moved to tears. 
When he appeared before Parliament to hear his 
sentence, he conducted himself in the same calm, 
heroic way, and defended himself with great elo- 
quence. 

In reply to the Chancellor's charge of breaking 
the Covenants, he said he had indeed taken the 
National Covenant^ and stood by it, until it was 
used more in assailing the royal rights of the 
king than in defending the religious rights of 
the people ; but as for The Solemn League and 
Covenant^ he had never signed it, and was not 
bound by it. 

When his hard sentence was read to him, he 
did not flinch, but remarked that he would be 
more honored by having his head placed on the 
Tolbooth than his portrait in the king's bed-cham- 
ber; and as for his body being quartered, he 
wished he had flesh enough to send some to every 
city of Europe, to testify of the cause for which 
he died. 

That night he wrote a poem, expressing these 
same heroic sentiments. 0, the pity of it, that 
the king and the king's father were so utterly 
undeserving of the devoted loyalty, the noble 



THE MARQUIS OF MONTROSE. 161 

blood, of such a man as Montrose ! But never a 
Stuart of them all was worthy of such a sacrifice. 

The Presbyterian clergy labored with the Mar- 
quis to obtain from him a confession of political 
crimes. He meekly acknowledged that, as a 7?ian, 
he had many sins to repent of; but he declared 
that towards his country and his king he had " a 
conscience void of offence." 

One Johnstone, a famous Covenanter preacher, 
intruded upon him as he was dressing, the day 
before his execution. Seeing the prisoner comb- 
ing and curling his long, beautiful hair, Johnstone 
gruffly remarked that he might be more profitably 
engaged at so solemn a time. 

" May it please you," replied the Marquis, 
with a haughty smile, " I will arrange my head as 
I fancy, to-day, for it is still my own ; to-morrow 
it will be yours, and you can do with it as you 
please." 

Montrose walked from the prison to the place 
of execution in the Grassmarket, where the terri- 
ble gibbet stood black and high. Here the Pres- 
byterian preachers came about him again, like a 
flock of ravens, prophesying misery and wrath, if 
he died without acknowledging his guilt. He 



162 EDINBUEGH. 

answered them gently, but turned from them to 
the hangman, as though he had been a friend. 
As a last insult, a book containing a history of his 
life was hung about his neck by the executioner ; 
but again Montrose defeated the spite of his ene- 
mies, by saying that he felt as much honored by 
such a record of brave deeds and loyal services 
as he had been by the badge of the Order of the 
Garter, which the king had bestowed upon him. 
At last he submitted himself to the hangman so 
calmly, and died so courageously, that a great 
shudder ran through the crowd, and sobs and 
groans arose on the air ; and when some of his 
bitter enemies looked up and saw his noble form 
slowly swinging above them, they felt that it 
would always be between them and heaven, and 
must bar them away from God forever. 

This sad execution happened on the 21st of 
May, 1650. Some writers say that Argyle exult- 
ed over the death of his rival, and others, that he 
was shocked by it, even to tears. Now, though I 
do not admire the character of the duke, I prefer 
to believe that the latter account is the true one. 



fHnfitirg!!. 



THE TWO MARGARETS 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 



165 




THE Presbyteri- 
ans of Scotland had 
very little confidence 
in Charles the Sec- 
ond, though he had 
signed the Covenants with the utmost solemnity. 
So they sent one of their number to London, to 
attend the meetings held there to arrange for 
the recall of the king, to stand up for the in- 
terests of Presbyterianism. This was a Mr. 



166 EDINBUEGH. 

James Sharp, ^minister in the Presbytery of St. 
Andrews, who in the end proved too sharp for 
his employers altogether, — for when he reached 
London, and fonnd which way the wind blew at 
court (decidedly in favor of Episcopacy), he 
made a secret agreement with Charles to do all 
in his power to forward the royal plans, pro- 
vided he could receive the Archbishopric of St. 
Andrews and the Primacy of Scotland. 

Two other traitors to the Covenant, and tools 
of the king, were the Earls of Middleton and 
Lauderdale, — one the Royal Commissioner in 
Parliament, the other the Secretary of State, 
and both hard, coarse, unprincipled men. One 
of then- boldest proceedings was to call a par- 
liament and pass acts doing away with all the 
laws passed during the preceding twenty-two 
years, declaring the Covenants illegal, and pro- 
hibiting their renewal. These tyrannical enact- 
ments were not passed without threats and 
bribery, and only, it is said, after " a drunken 
bout," — a shameful way of legislating, which 
unfortunately has not quite gone out of fashion. 
We Americans need not go back two hundred 
years, into the history of a foreign country, to 
know that such things have been. 



THE TWO MAEGARETS. 167 

The people were greatly outraged by these 
high-handed proceedings, but did not rise in 
revolt till they were driven to it by actual per- 
secution. Middle ton and Lauderdale singled out 
several prominent Presbyterians, and brought 
them to the scaffold. Among these were the 
Marquis of Argyle, a minister by the name of 
Guthrie, and a Captain Govan. Guthrie suf- 
fered for writing a book against the course of 
the king, and Govan for having brought the 
tidings of Charles the First's execution to Edin- 
burgh, and spoken of it as " good news." I am 
sorry to say that there is little, if any, more 
liberty to print or speak unpleasant truths, in 
several of the kingdoms of Europe, at this day. 

The Argyle they executed was the old enemy 
of Montrose. His bleeding head now replaced 
on the Tolbooth that of the Marquis, whose 
almost fleshless skull and limbs were brought 
together and buried, with immense pomp, in 
the Cathedral of St. Giles. And so matters 
went, in those dreadful times, — heads up, and 
heads down, like a horrible game of see-saw : 
heads on, heads off — but, imhappily, never on 
again. 



168 EDINBURGH. 

Middleton, Lauderdale, and their crew next 
passed an act for ejecting from their parishes 
all clergymen who would not conform to Epis- 
copacy. This, also, was one of " the drunken 
acts " of the depraved king's councillors. To 
their immortal honor, hundreds of clergymen 
refused to conform to a church government 
which their consciences could not accept, and 
were deprived at once of their means of living, 
and, with their families, driven from their homes, 
and thrown upon the charities of a poor and 
distracted country. 

They were succeeded by a miserable set of 
curates, — for the most part ignorant and un- 
principled men, — whose bad hearts despised 
the holy Word of God they dared to utter, and 
whose dissolute lives were a blasphemy against 
Him they professed to serve. It was little won- 
der that the moral and devout people of Scot- 
land refused to attend upon religious services 
administered by such men. Some were weak 
and worldly enough to conform ; but by far the 
greater part, of, the peasantry at least, stood 
bravely by the Covenants. They followed their 
banished ministers to their retreats among the 



THE TWO MAEGAEETS. 169 

hills, and would have none others to instruct 
and guide them. Everywhere they held secret 
meetings for preaching and prayer, — but espe- 
cially in the south and west of the kingdom. 
They met in private houses, in barns, or in 
the open air. These unlawful assemblies were 
called Conventicles and Field-meetings. Lauder- 
dale and company took severe measures to punish 
the Non-conformists, and compel them to attend 
upon the services of the curates. They passed 
another act, commanding all the Covenanter 
ministers to remove twenty miles from their par- 
ishes, and forbidding them, on pain of death, 
ever to come within that distance of their old 
homes. They posted troops throughout the dis- 
tricts where there was most of the Covenanter 
spirit, to awe and oppress the people, and drive 
them to church, as sheep are driven mto a pen. 
These lawless soldiers committed all sorts of 
outrages upon the common people, while their 
ferocious leaders took in hand the Presbyterians 
of better condition. They robbed and destroyed, 
— they fined and imprisoned, — and, too of- 
ten, shot down their unarmed victims without 
legal arrest or trial. But no injustice or cru- 
8 



170 EDINBUEGH. 

elty could daunt or subdue the fearless and 
faithful Covenanters. Meeting after meeting 
was violently broken up ; yet still they were 
held in the shadowy glens and on the heathery 
liills, and more and more numerously attended. 
Sir Walter Scott describes one of these, and I 
will quote his fine description, to give you an 
idea of the singular and impressive scene pre- 
sented at such gatherings. 

" The meeting in question was held on the 
Eildon Hills, in the hollow betwixt two of the 
three conical tops which form the crest of the 
mountain. Trusty sentinels were placed on ad- 
vanced posts all around, so as to command a 
view of the country below, and give the earliest 
notice of the approach of any -unfriendly party. 
The clergyman occupied an elevated temporary 
pulpit, with his back to the wind. There were 
few or no gentlemen of property or quality, — 
for such persons could not escape detection, and 
were liable to ruin from the consequences. But 
many women of good condition, and holding 
the rank of ladies, ventured to attend the for- 
bidden meeting, and were allowed to sit in front 
of the assembly. Their side-saddles were placed 



THE TWO MARGAEETS. 171 

on the groimd, to serve for seats ; and their 
horses were tethered in the rear of the congre- 
gation. Before the females, and in the space 
between them and the pulpit, the arms of the 
men present — pikes, swords, and muskets — 
were regularly piled in such order as is used by 
soldiers, so that each man might, in an instant, 
assume his own weapons." 

Sometimes those weapons had to be used. A 
sentinel would give the alarm, and a troop of dra- 
goons or a regiment of foot-soldiers would come 
dashing down fi'om the hills, or stealing up from 
the glens, to attack the worshippers. Then the 
Covenanters, with the minister at their head, 
would gTasp their arms, and fight manfully for 
the protection of their wives, mothers, sisters, 
and children. Sometimes there were terrible 
scenes of cruelty and slaughter, and the rocks of 
the mountain or the flowers of the glen were 
reddened with the blood of the martyrs. 

But, when all went peacefully, how strength- 
ening and comforting it must have been for those 
poor persecuted ones to meet thus, — to listen to 
a beloved pastor's voice, and pray and sing to- 
gether. And how grand their solemn psalms 



172 EDINBUEGH. 

must have sounded, pealing up among the hills, 
and echoing from peak to peak! — and how sweet 
their hymns, swelling on the fitful breeze, min- 
gled with the songs of birds and the murmur of 
distant waterfalls ! What a sublime place to 
worship God in ! — mightier and more beautiful 
than any temple ever built by men. 

Perhaps the good, earnest-hearted Covenanters 
often imagined that God's angels were listening 
to their voices, — '■ standing but a little way above 
them, — veiled from their sight by the mists of 
the mountain-tops. And douljtless they were. 

In 1666 the Covenanters had an unsuccessful 
revolt, called " The Pentland Eising." Many of 
those engaged in this were captured, and put to 
death, — some with frightful tortures. They all 
died nobly. 

The chief military leaders of the persecuting 
party were Sir James Turner, General Dalziel, 
and John Graham of Claverhouse. These three 
remorseless men have been execrated and de- 
spised ever since, — and they deserve all the 
blame and shame they have received; yet they 
were not so guilty as the statesmen and prelates 
who urged them on to such horrible excesses of 
barbarity. 



THE TWO MAKGAEETS. 173 

At length the persecutors themselves grew wea- 
ry, — even the king expressed himself "shocked " 
by the accounts from Scotland ; so for a while 
milder measures were adopted. But the stern 
old Covenanters could no more be coaxed than 
driven into conformity, — they stood out as 
stoutly as ever ; and their persecutors, when they 
had taken a little breath, began again, more furi- 
ous and ferocious than before. They raked up 
some barbarous old laws, long out of use, and 
brought them to bear against the Covenanters. 
The king (the same who had been so shocked) 
published what were called " Letters of Inter- 
communing," by which " his majesty commanded 
all his dutiful subjects not to inter commune with 
any of the rebels, nor furnish them with meat, 
drink, house, or harbor, nor to^have any intelli- 
gence with any of them by word, writ, or mes- 
sage, under pain of being considered guilty of 
the same crimes as the persons mtercommuned." 

By tliis cruel command more than 17,000 per- 
sons were made homeless outlaws, reduced to 
dreadful privations, and many suffered death. 
Another wicked measure of the persecutors was 
to invite several thousand wild Highlanders to 



174 EDINBURGH. 

ravage and plunder the Lowlands, where the 
Covenanters were the strongest. I am sorry to 
say that the mountaineers performed then- task 
mercilessly, — stripping whole provinces of every- 
thing valuable which could be carried away. 

In 1679, the traitor, Archbishop Sharpe, was 
assassinated by John Balfour of Burley, who 
wrongly imagined he was doing God's service ; 
and shortly after Claverhouse was defeated at the 
battle of Drumclog. The Covenanters took cour- 
age, and raised an army of six or seven thousand 
men. The king sent against them a greater 
force, commanded by the Duke of Monmouth, 
and attacked them by Both well Bridge, on the 
River Clyde. The Covenanters might have been 
victorious, if they had been prepared and united 
among themselves. But they had been indulging 
in violent political and theological discussions for 
more than a fortnight, and were so exhausted, 
out of temper, and out of heart, that they could 
not stand against the enemy. They were de- 
feated, and left four hundred of their best men 
on the field. Bothwell Bridge was piled with the 
fallen, so that when Claverhouse charged across 
it, his terrible black war-horse went plunging and 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 175 

leaping over great heaps of the dymg and the 
dead. 0, it was an awful day ! 

After this, all the Covenanter survivors of the 
battle were hunted out and killed, with especial 
ferocity; and when Claverhouse and his men 
were balked in their pursuit of one of them, they 
seized upon the first Presbyterian they could find, 
and put him to death, — so strangely bloodthirsty 
were they. 

A very touchmg story I find in the history of 
this time, of the murder of one John Brown, a 
carrier, a brave and good man, — and of the 
Christian heroism of his wife, Marion. These 
two were married at a field-meeting, by a Mr. 
Peden, a celebrated preaclier, who seems to have 
had the gift of prophecy ; for, after the ceremony, 
he said to Marion, solemnly : " You have got a 
good husband, — value him highly. Keep linen 
for a winding-sheet beside you ; for in a day 
when you least expect it he may be taken from 
you!" 

Three years after, this minister visited the car- 
rier at his home, on the Farm of Priesthill, Ayr- 
shire, and spent the night. The next day, when 
he was taking leave of Marion, he looked very 



176 EDINBUEGH. 

sad, and said : " Poor woman, — a fearful morn- 
ing ! A dark and misty morning ! " 

When lie was gone, John Brown took his spade 
and went out to his work, near the house. There 
was a thick mist, and the first the poor man 
knew he was surrounded by dragoons, with Cla- 
verhouse at their head. They began to question 
him sternly, and he answered readily and dis- 
tinctly, which was strange, as always before he 
had been troubled with a painful stammer. Cla- 
verhouse then called out to him : "Go to your 
prayers now, for the last time, — for you must 
die at once." John Brown knelt down, and 
prayed very fervently for himself and all men. 
Claverhouse interrupted him, impatiently, several 
times, and, when he closed, said : " Now say 
good night to your wife and children." John 
Brown turned to his wife, who stood near, with a 
baby in her arms and a little girl at her side, and 
said : " Now, Marion, the day is come that I told 
you might come, when I first spake to you of 
marrying me." She looked tenderly in his eyes, 
and answered : " Indeed, John, in this cause I 
am willing to part with you." Then he kissed 
her and the babies, and blessed them. 



THE TWO MAEGARETS. 177 

Claverhouse commanded six soldiers to shoot 
him. Most of the bullets struck his head, and 
killed him instantly. 

Marion had never before been able to see blood 
without fainting ; but she did not faint at this 
fearful sight. Her eyes were only a little da.zzled 
by the flash of the muskets. When all was over, 
Claverhouse said to her : " What thinkest thou 
of thy husband now, woman ? " She replied : 
" I always thought meikle (much) of him, and 
now more than ever." 

When the cruel persecutors were gone, she set 
her baby down on the ground, tied up her hus- 
band's head with her kerchief, straightened his 
body, covered him over with her plaid, and then 
sat down and wept beside him. 

The death of Charles the Second did not help 
the cause of the Covenanters much. They suf- 
fered persecution during the brief reign of his 
bigoted brother, James the Second of England. 

This king was a Catholic, and bent upon bring- 
ing both England and Scotland again under the 
yoke of the Pope. In the struggle with his rebel- 
lious subjects he lost his crown, and was forced 
to fly from his kingdom, while his daughter Mary 

8* L 



178 EDrNBUEGH. 

and her husband (Wilham, Prince of Orange), 
both Protestants, were called to the throne. 
These sovereigns wisely resolved to give full 
religious liberty to Scotland. In July, 1689, 
Prelacy was abolished in that country, and Pres- 
byterianism restored. So, after a long, stormy 
night of trouble and oppression, the sun of peace 
and toleration arose upon poor Scotland. 

The persecutions had lasted nearly a century, 
during which time no less than eighteen thousand 
people had suffered death, banishment, or long 
imprisonment ; but the tears of anguish that were 
shed, and the hearts that were broken, only God 
can number. Let us thank him that such things 
can never be again, in a country calling itself 
Christian. 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 

In May, 1685, during the reign of James the 
Seventh, two women, one named Margaret Mac- 
laughlin, and the other Margaret Wilson, were 
arrested for attending a field-meeting, and, re- 
fusing to conform, were sentenced to death. The 



THE TWO MAEGAEETS. 179 

first was an aged woman, weary of a world in 
wliicli she had seen a great deal of trouble, and 
longing to depart and be with Christ. But the 
other, Margaret Wilson, was young, — only eigh- 
teen, and very fair. She had many to love her, 
for she loved many, and to her this earth seemed 
very beautiful. Yet she loved God better than 
life, — and went bravely, even cheerfully, to death 
for his sake. 

The form of execution fixed upon for these two 
was singular, as well as very cruel. They were 
sentenced to be bound to stakes, driven down into 
the sea-beach, when the tide was coming in, — 
there to stand until the waters should overwhelm 
and drown them. 

The morning when the people and the troops 
assembled on the sea-shore to see this sentence 
carried into execution was very bright and balmy. 
The blackbirds and thrushes, in the dark fir-trees, 
sang as gayly as ever, out of their glad, innocent 
hearts ; and the wild sea-birds, whirling in the 
pleasant air, screamed out their shrill delight, — 
while God's beautiful sunlight fell, as his rain 
and dew descend, " on the just, and on the 
unjust." 



180 EDINBUEGH. 

The two Margarets came down to the beach, 
escorted by a troop of rude soldiers, and followed 
by a crowd of weeping friends. They both 
walked firmly and were very calm, though their 
faces were deadly pale, and their lips moved in 
prayer. Before they were fastened to the stakes, 
they were told that their lives would be spared, 
if they would, even then, renounce the Covenant. 
But again they firmly refused. Then they took a 
last leave of their friends. 

Margaret Maclaughlin had children and grand- 
children present. She kissed them and blessed 
them all, very tenderly and solemnly. One little 
grandson she took in her aged arms, and pressed 
to her bosom. He twined his chubby arms 
around her neck and cried, though he did not 
know why, only that he saw tears on her dear old 
cheeks. When she was led away to the stake, 
he struggled in his father's arms, and cried out : 
" Come back, grandmither ! Dinna gang awa' 
into the black sea, — come back to Johnny ! " 
This drew tears from many eyes in the crowd, 
and even touched the hard hearts of such of the 
soldiers as had children or grandchildren of their 
own. 



THE TWO MARGARETS. 181 

Margaret "Wilson had to part with a father and 
mother, brothers and sisters. She was the calm- 
est of them all, though she wept very much, es- 
pecially when she parted from her mother, who 
was a sickly woman, and needed her help. This 
poor mother fainted in her husband's arms when 
their beloved daughter was led away by the sol- 
diers. One of Margaret's brothers, a little boy, 
clung longest to her, sobbing and shrieking with 
passionate grief. 

" Hush ! hush ! Jamie," said the young mar- 
tyr ; " it breaks my heart to hear you ; and if you 
fill my ears wi' yer loud greeting (weeping), I 
canna hear the whispers o' the angels wha come 
to strengthen me ! " 

Then Jamie grew still, let go her dress, and 
turned his face away. But when he saw her 
bound to the stake, and the waves rising around 
her, his wild grief broke out afresh, and he rushed 
into the water, crying : " I am a Covenanter, too, 
— I will go drown wi' my dear sister Maggie." He 
had to be brought back by force, and the incident 
so affected the spectators that many shouted, 
" Rescue the women ! Save them ! save them ! " 

The military force was too strong for a res- 



182 EDINBURGH. 

cue ; but the people had hopes that they might be 
saved, for the magistrate seemed to relent for a 
moment, and said that if the women would say, 
" God save the King ! " they might go free. 
Then the people shouted to them to yield this 
much. " Consider," they said, " it is your duty 
to pray even for the greatest sinner ! " " Ay, but 
not at the bidding of every profligate," replied 
brave old Margaret Maclaughlin. But as sweet 
Margaret Wilson said that she " wished not that 
any should perish, but that all should have ever- 
lasting life," they cried out that she had prayed 
for the king, and rushing into the water, brought 
her out. Then the magistrate, growing hard 
again, asked her sternly if she was ready now to 
renounce the Covenant. " No," she answered, 
with gentle firmness, " I have signed the Cove- 
nant, and I will abide by it for aye, wi' the help 
o' the God o' the Covenant." Then the magis- 
trate grew very angry, and commanded that 
" the obstinate lass " should be taken back to the 
stake. 

Then the two Margarets spoke cheering words 
to one another, and for a while looked towards 
the shore, smiling and waving their hands in 



THE TWO MAEGAEETS. 183 

loving farewell ; but as the tide came in strong 
and stronger, they clasped their hands on their 
breasts, raised their eyes, and gave themselves up 
wholly to prayer. 

The foaming waves rose to Margaret Wilson's 
slender waist, — over her gentle, noble heart, — 
above her white, praying hands ; and they rose 
above Margaret Maclaughlin's strong, faithful 
heart, — over her shrivelled, praying hands, trem- 
bling with cold ; then, only two faces were seen, — 
one young and fair, the other old and wrinkled, 
— but both beaming with saintly glory ; and last, 
two heads of long hair — one gray, and the other 
golden — floated for a moment on the crest of a 
wave, and then sunk out of sight. The golden 
hair remained visible a little longer than the 
other ; for, to the last, Margaret Wilson kept her 
face turned towards Heaven, as though to wel- 
come the angels coming to receive her soul ; but 
old Margaret Maclaughlin closed her eyes, and 
let her head sink on her breast, as though she 
wished to be carried sleeping to her Father's 
mansion, in the arms of angels, like a wearied 
child. 

When all was over, it happened that a little 



184 EDINBURGH. 

wave brought to Jamie Wilson's feet the snood, 
or white ribbon, which had confined his sister's 
beautiful hair. He caught it up, kissed it, wept 
over it, hid it next his heart, and ever after 
treasured it as the relic of a saint. 



(IMnliitrglj. 



THE 'PRENTICE'S PIIIAR. 



THE 'PKENTICE'S PILLAR. 



187 




BEFORE quit- 
ting altogether the 
subject of the 
unhappy religious 
strife which so long desolated Scotland, I will 
relate two charming stories, from history, which 
may show you how nobly heroic gentle-hearted 
women, even young girls, may be, in times of 
war and persecution. 

It happens that both of my heroines were 



188 EDINBUEGH. 

called Grizel, — not a very pretty name, certainly, 
but I think you will grow to liking it, after read- 
ing of them. I will begin with 



GRIZEL HIBIE. 

A short time before the death of Charles the 
Second, there was an enterprise formed by sev- 
eral eminent English and Scottish lords and gen- 
tlemen, to prevent the Duke of York, afterwards 
James the Second, of England, from ascending 
the throne. Through treachery and rashness 
this enterprise failed, and many of those engaged 
in it were arrested and put to death. Among the 
few leaders who escaped the vengeance of the 
government was the good and brave Sir Patrick 
Hume, of Polwarth. It happened that the party 
of soldiers sent to arrest him stopped for refresh- 
ment at the house of a nobleman known to be 
loyal. Here they inquired the way to Polwarth 
Castle, and their hostess, being a friend to Sir 
Patrick, resolved to give him warning. She did 
not dare to write, nor even to trust one of her ser- 
vants to carry a plain message to her neighbor ; 



THE 'PEENTICE'S PILLAR. 189 

but, being very ingenious, she took an eagle's 
feather, and wrapping it in a piece of blank pa- 
per, sent it by a fleet-footed Highland boy across 
the hills to Polwarth. She then put wines and 
rich meats before her guests, and made them all 
feel so extremely comfortable that they lingered 
at her house as long as possible. 

Sir Patrick understood at once, from the token 
she sent, that he was in danger, and must fly or 
secrete himself. He resolved upon the latter 
course as the least hazardous, and could think of 
no safer hiding-place than a vault in Polwarth 
churchyard, where his ancestors were buried. 
It was a dismal place enough, — damp, dark, and 
cold, — with dead men and women and children 
lying all about in mouldering coffins, covered 
with tattered black palls ; but it was better than 
a prison cell, chains, and a scaffold. Scarcely 
had he secreted himself before the soldiers ar- 
rived. They searched for him high and low, far 
and wide, — everywhere but in the old vault. 
Then they separated and went off in various di- 
rections, still searching, inquiring, and swearing 
at their ill luck. At night, a faithful domestic 
carried a bed and some blankets to the church- 



190 EDINBURGH. 

yard, flung them down into the vault, and then 
ran home, his heart beating loud, and his teeth 
chattering for fear of ghosts and hobgoblins. 

But there was one who was not frightened from 
her duty by any such wild fancies, so full was her 
heart of that "perfect love which casteth out 
fear." This was Sir Patrick's daughter, Grizel, a 
beautiful young lady, only eighteen, but thought- 
ful, courageous, and prudent beyond her years. 
She was the only one who could be trusted to 
carry her father his food, which must always be 
taken to him at midnight. Her mother, who was 
rather afflicted with cowardice, — " nervousness " 
she called it, — waited for her return in dreadful 
anxiety, and when she came, took her in her 
arms, blessed her and rejoiced over her as though 
she had risen from the dead. " But did it no 
fright you, lassie, to pass through the kirk-yard 
at such an awful time o' night ? " she asked. 
" No, no, mother," said Grizel, smiling; "I knew 
God could take care of me as well at midnight as 
at noonday, and I felt that every star above was a 
kind angel's face, watching over me. I feared 
nothing, mother, but the minister's dogs, lest 
their barking should rouse the people at the 



THE 'PRENTICE'S PILLAR. 191 

manse, and dear father's hiding-place be discov- 
ered." 

The next day Lady Hume sent for the min- 
ister, and complaining of a fear of mad dogs (I 
am afraid she stretched a point there), persuaded 
him to shut up his dogs for a time. 

Grizel had a good deal of trouble in obtaining 
food for her father without the knowledge of the 
servants, whom it was thought not best to trust 
with her secret. She used to watch her chance 
and take pieces of meat and bread from the table, 
when the family were at dinner. One day, when 
they had sheep's head, a good old Scotch dish, 
Grizel took a larger portion than usual off the 
platter, and hid it in her napkin. Scarcely had 
she done so when one of her brothers, a little boy, 
and, like other little boys, apt to blunder out the 
wrong thing at the wrong time and place, bawled 
out indignantly, " mamma, see Grizzy ! while 
we were supping the broth, she has eaten up 
almost all the sheep's head." The poor girl 
feared that her secret would be discovered then, 
but the servants present only wondered what had 
come over Miss Grizel, to be so greedy. 

Sir Patrick remained in the funeral vault, with 



192 ^ EDINBUEGH. 

no light by day but what came through a little 
hole at one end, and no amusement but reading 
and reciting psalms, for several weeks ; then he 
ventured to return for a little while to his house, 
and from there he made his escape in safety to 
Holland, where he remained till after the death 
of Charles the Second. 



GRIZEL COCHRANE. 

Sir John Cochrane, of Ochiltree, a son of the 
Earl of Dundonald, and a most heroic gentleman, 
was engaged with Sir Patrick Hume in the con- 
spiracy against the Duke of York. He also made 
his escape to Holland, and, with his friend and 
other patriotic refugees, returned to join a re- 
bellion, headed by the Duke of Argyle, against 
James the Second. This, like the other plot, was 
unsuccessful. The Duke, as you have seen, suf- 
fered death ; and Sir John Cochrane was arrest- 
ed, tried, and condemned to die, though great 
efforts were made to save him by his father, the 
Earl of Dundonald, who had never conspired 
against the government. 



THE 'PRENTICE'S PILLAR. 193 

No friend or relative was allowed to see the 
prisoner until after his condemnation, when he 
was informed by his surly jailer, that, during the 
time which must pass before the arrival of the 
death-warrant from London, he might see his 
family. Sir John, however, not being willing to 
bring upon his sons the suspicion of sharing his 
treason, sent them his positive commands to re- 
frain from visiting him until the night before his 
execution ; but he said his beloved only daughter, 
Grizel, a fair girl of eighteen, might visit him at 
once, if she would ; and she came. Her beauti- 
ful, loving face seemed almost to bring the dear- 
ness and peace of home, the brightness and sweet- 
ness of liberty into his dreary cell, though it was 
pale and worn with sorrow, and overflowed with 
tears. Grizel flung herself upon her father's 
breast and sobbed bitterly ; but when she felt the 
tears of that strong, brave man falling on her 
hand, she hushed her sobs, and strove to comfort 
him. 

She told him her grandfather, the Earl, had 
petitioned the king for a pardon, and would make 
a strong effort to obtain the favor of his Majesty's 
confessor, the powerful Father Peters. But Sir 



194 EDINBURGH. 

John shook his head despondingly, saying that 
even if the king could be persuaded to forgive 
such a notorious rebel, the pardon v^ould not 
probably arrive at Edinburgh till several days 
after the death-warrant had come and all was 
over. 

Every day Grizel visited her father, and talked 
with him about these matters, and every night 
she spent many waking hours in striving to con- 
trive some plan for his deliverance. The only 
thing to be done, it seemed to her, was to inter- 
cept or delay the death-warrant, so that the 
friends who were working for him in London 
could have time to effect their good purpose. 
But how to do this was the question. At last, a 
few days before the warrant was expected by the 
council in Edinburgh, she fixed upon a bold plan 
for getting possession of it. She did not confide 
this plan to any, not even to her father. She 
only told him very quietly that some important 
business would prevent her from visiting him for 
a day or two. Yet he was somewhat alarmed, 
and replied : " Don't, my dear daughter, under- 
take any plan to save me, for which your age 
and sex unfit you." 



THE 'PRENTICE'S PILLAR. 195 

" I am a Cochrane, my father," she replied ; 
" do not fear for me." Still, for all her heroism, 
her heart sunk, and her tears fell fast, when 
the prison-door closed on that poor father. 
What if she had taken her last look of his be- 
loved face ! 

The next morning early Grizel assumed a 
humble disguise, mounted a favorite palfrey, and 
rode out of Edinburgh towards the borders. 
She stopped only at country cottages, where 
she passed herself off as a housemaid taking a 
journey to visit her friends. On the second 
day, she reached the house of her old nurse, 
who lived just over the Tweed, near the town 
of Berwick. To this woman she revealed her 
secret, and the good dame promised to aid her 
all in her power, though she shook her head 
sadly, and said it was an awful undertaking. 
And so it was ; for Grizel' s purpose was no 
other than to waylay and rob the postman of 
the mail ! hoping thus to get possession of the 
warrant. She had brought with her a brace of 
pistols and a horseman's cloak ; and her nurse 
lent her a suit of clothes belonging to her son, 
Grizel's foster-brother, which luckily fitted the 
brave girl very well. 



196 EDINBURGH. 

In those times, the mail was brought from 
London to Edinburgh on horseback, — the bags 
containing it being strapped on to the saddle 
before the postman, who was always armed. 
The journey took full eight days ; so Grizel cal- 
culated that if she could carry out her plan, it 
Avould be at least sixteen or seventeen days be- 
fore a second death-warrant could be received, 
which, she hoped, would afford her father's 
friends a fair opportunity to obtain his pardon. 
She had somehow ascertained that the postman 
was in the habit of stopping at a little inn kept 
by a widow, near Bedford, on a certain day, to 
take a few hours' rest. He usually reached this 
place in the early morning, and Grizel contrived 
to arrive a short time after he had breakfasted 
and laid down to sleep. She put up her horse, 
and, going into the house, asked for some refresh- 
ment. 

" Well, sit down at that table, my bonnie lad," 
replied the landlady, " and I will serve you ; but 
please be as quiet as possible, for there is the 
London postman asleep in that bed, and I would 
not have him disturbed." 

After making a slight meal, Grizel asked for 



THE 'PRENTICE'S PILLAR. 197 

some fresh water, offering to pay for it the price 
of good beer ; and, while the dame was gone to 
the well, she rose, and stole on tip-toe to the 
bed on which the postman was sleeping. To her 
disappointment, he was lying with the mail-bags 
under his head and shoulders ; and she saw that 
she could not take them away without waking 
him. By his side, lay his pistols. She had 
just time to draw the loading from these, and 
put them back into the holsters, before the land- 
lady returned. Then she paid liberally for her 
breakfast, and, having carelessly asked how long 
the postman would be likely to sleep, she mount- 
ed her horse and rode away in a direction oppo- 
site to the one she came from. She took a cir 
cuit, however, and came out on the high road, 
when she ambled along slowly until the post- 
man came up. Then she checked her horse, 
and fell into a conversation with him. He was 
a large, burly man, but with a good-natured 
face, and, Grizel was glad to see, not a very 
brave or determined-looking fellow. 

Miss Cochrane watched her opportunity, and 
when they came to a lonely place, near a wood, 
with no house or traveller in sight, she rode 



198 EDINBUEGH. 

close to her companion, and said, sternly : 
" Friend, I have taken a fancy to those mail- 
bags, and I must have them, at all hazards. I 
am armed, well mounted, and determined to 
have my will. So, take my advice, give up the 
mail-bags, and go back the way you came ; and, 
if you value your life, don't come near yonder 
wood for at least two hours." 

The stout postman only burst into a hearty fit 
of laughter at this. " ho, my pretty youth ! " he 
said, " you are disposed to make yourself merry 
at my expense ! Deliver up his Majesty's mails 
to one like you, forsooth ! Go, to ! you look 
more fit to rob birds' nests and orchards. If I 
were churlish enough to take offence at a boy's 
foolish jest, I could teach you a hard lesson. 
Master Smooth-face." As he said this, he saw 
something in Grizel's eye which did not look like 
jesting, — so, taking a pistol from the holster 
and cocking it, he added : " But if you are mad 
enough to be in earnest, I am ready for you, you 
see, — so put spurs to your horse and be off with 
you, while you have a whole skin." 

It was a perilous moment for Grizel. She knew 
it was possible that the man had discovered her 



THE 'PRENTICE'S PILLAR. 199 

trick at the inn, and had reloaded his pistols ; 
but she thought of her father, and did not flinch. 
" I don't like to shed blood," she said, " but I am 
also ready;" and, drawing a pistol and -present- 
ing it, " that mail I must and will have ! So, 
take your choice, — deliver it, or die!" 

" Well, then, you hair-brained stripling, your 
blood be on your own head ! " cried the postman, 
firing his pistol, which only flashed in the pan. 
He flung it down, seized the other, fired, — and 
again there was only a flash ! Then, in a rage, he 
leaped to the ground, and tried to seize her horse 
by the reins, — but, by the quick use of the spur, 
she escaped from his grasp, and, before he was 
aware of her pul^pose, she caught his own horse, 
and was galloping off" with it, mail-bags and all ! 
She looked back once, to point her pistol at him. 
and warn him not to follow her, — then she put 
both horses to their utmost speed, till she reached 
the wood, — when she left the highway, and rode 
into the deepest part of the forest. Here she 
tied the postman's horse to a tree, unstrapped 
the mail-bags, cut them open with her penknife, 
and took out the Government despatches, which 
she knew by their great seals. Among these she 



200 . EDINBUKGH. 

found not only her father's death-warrant, but 
several others, all of which she tore into small 
pieces and hid in her bosom. She then replaced 
the other papers in the mail-bags (where they 
were afterwards found), mounted her horse, re- 
turned to the house of her nurse, burned the 
fragments of the warrants, resumed her female 
dress, and journeyed back to Edinburgh, all in 
perfect safety. 

Her heroic act did indeed save the life of her 
father. It gave the Earl of Dundonald time to 
persuade Father Peters (with the help of five 
thousand pounds) to persuade the king that it 
would be for the good of his royal soul to pa,rdon 
his enemy. Sir John Cochrane, — and he did it. 

This is the only instance I remember to have 
ever heard of, where robbing the mail was justifi- 
able. Yet I hardly think it a piece of heroism 
which would bear repeating. 

I hope that Miss Hume and Miss Cochrane, the 
two Grizels, were good friends. They ought to 
have been. 



THE 'PRENTICE'S PILLAR. 201 



THE ENVIRONS OF EDINBURGH. 

There are many places in the vicinity of Edin- 
burgh which travellers should visit, not only for 
their beauty, but because their names are familiar 
to all readers of Scottish history, poetry, romance. 
A few miles from the city, on the river Esk, in 
the green depths of a lovely dell, stands the 
Gothic Chapel of Roslin, built several centuries 
ago, by the St. Clairs, Earls of Caithness and 
Orkney, and Lords of Roslin, — who dwelt near 
by, in a stately castle.- 

The castle is now but a grand old ruin, — the 
proud and warlike lords who once inhabited it 
lie beneath the Chapel, each clad in a complete 
suit of armor, an iron shroud, — the strong arm, 
the bloody hand, the fiery heart, the haughty 
voice, still and silent forever ; but the Chapel, 
the best of all their works, lives after them, — 
remains yet beautiful, august, and solemn, — 
seeming almost to consecrate their stern memo- 
ries, — to atone for many sins, to rise over their 
poor dust like a perpetual intercession for their 
souls. 

9* 



202 EDINBURGH. 

The architecture of the chapel is of different 
styles, representing the tastes and art of the dif- 
ferent ages in which it was built. The orna- 
mental portions are of wonderful variety and 
beauty, — displaying a thousand forms of curious 
and graceful sculpture. Among the columns 
which support the stately arches, is one so beau- 
tiful in form and so perfect in finish, that all 
tourists pause before it in surprise, and linger 
long to admire it, — marvelling at the genius 
which created such a joy for the eye out of the 
dull, rude rock, — which carved such a poem in 
stone. This pillar is completely wreathed with 
foliage, so delicately modelled, so exquisitely 
wrought, that, hard and colorless as it is, you 
almost fancy it can stir and rustle, and send out 
faint fragrance on the air. 

But there is something beside its beauty to 
make one remember this pillar. It is a legend, 
dark and sorrowful, which clings about it as 
closely as its lovely sculptures, and will cling 
as long. 



THE 'PRENTICE'S PILLAR. 203 



THE LEGEND OF THE 'PRENTICE's PILLAR. 

The master-builder of Roslin Chapel was a 
hard, ambitious man, who thought only of the 
fame and fortune his work would win for him, — 
not of the glory of the Holy One to whom the 
edifice would be dedicated, or of the sacred joy 
which devout souls would have in worshipping 
within it. He did not even love the grand arches 
and pillars, the figures of saints and angels, and 
the sweet little cherub faces he planned and 
sculptured, — save as he counted up how much 
gold and renown they would bring him, — so 
that it seemed that, while turning stones into 
beauty and worship, he had turned his heart into 
stone. When erecting the high altar itself, he 
wrought more for the honor of his own name 
than for that of his heavenly Lord, — and if he 
had dared, he would have set up his own scowl- 
ing efiigy in some lofty niche, in place of the 
statue of a meek-browed saint or angel, for the 
people to bend before in solemn reverence. 

This man was not only thus arrogant and self- 
ish, but bitterly jealous of the talent and fame of 



204 EDINBURGH. 

other architects, treating them all as though they 
were his natural enemies, whose very presence, 
even while he made use of their labor, was a 
wrong and an offence. 

There was among his apprentices one whom 
he especially hated, because he could not help 
seeing that the youth had great genius for his art, 
and was likely to be very famous. This young 
sculptor was of a nature gentle, generous, and 
devout, and bore himself quietly and meekly 
under his hard master's taunts and reproofs. He 
consoled himself for all such little trials, by the 
delight he took in his art. He loved to repro- 
duce, in imperishable marble, the fading forms of 
earthly beauty, — flowers, and foliage, and lovely 
childish faces, and he loved best of all to labor for 
the adornment of noble edifices, dedicated to 
Him who inspired worship and created all beauti- 
ful things. He thought he saw in nature the 
types of great cathedrals, — in the solemn arches 
of dim forests, in the mighty boles of ancient 
oaks, in the rocky towers of mountain-steeps, in 
gorgeous sunset clouds — the stained windows of 
heaven. 

It happened that the master-builder found him- 



THE 'PRENTICE'S PILLAR. 205 

self unable to make a certain pillar, after a plan 
which had been brought from Eome, without 
going all the way to that city, to examine the 
model. The journey was a tedious and perilous 
one in those days, yet the ambitious artisan 
undertook it, — saying nothing of his purpose 
to any one. 

During his absence, the young apprentice came 
across the plans which his master had not under- 
stood, but which were clear to his keen, beauty- 
loving eyes, and, thinking no harm, began to 
work them out. Every morning, before he com- 
menced his work, he prayed that good angels 
might guide his chisel ; every evening he walked 
alone in the fields and woods, and reverently 
studied the foliage of trees and vines, that he 
might be able to copy them exactly, to the curl 
of a tendril, or the most delicate veining of a 
leaf. Every flower bore for his eyes traces of the 
hand of the Divine Artist, — every smallest spray 
conveyed a lesson from the great Master-Builder 
of the universe. 

All alone he toiled, till a magic summer began 
to bud and blossom out of the cold, hard stone, — 
fair, white forms of flower and foliage, which one 



206 EDINBURGH. 

might fancy lovely ghosts of old-world bloom and 
verdure, that perished by flood or fire, and were 
embedded or fused in the fluid rock, — came 
forth, day by day, and seemed to climb and 
wreathe themselves around the graceful pillar. 

At last it was finished and raised to its place, 
to the sound of a hymn, sung by the pious young 
artisan ; and while everybody was wondering and 
admiring, the master-builder came home, full of 
his project for delighting the Lord of Roslin and 
all Scotland, by the marvellous pillar he was 
about to execute. 

It happened that the first of his workmen 
whom he met was the young apprentice. 

" Well, sirrah," said he, scornfully, " what 
have you been about while I have been away? 
Anything better than idle dreaming ? " 

" Yes, my master," replied the youth, modestly, 
" I have executed a pillar, from some plans I 
found in your study ; and I hope my work will 
please you." 

" A pillar! Show it to me. I warrant it must 
come down right speedily. A pillar, forsooth ! 
and after my plans. How dare you meddle with 
matters above your condition ? " 



THE 'PRENTICE'S PILLAR. 207 

The apprentice did not reply, but quietly led 
his master to the pillar, and stood by, longing, yet 
hardly daring to hope for his approval. For 
some moments, the master-builder stood still, 
overwhelmed with amazement. Here was that 
difficult design which he had travelled so far, and 
braved so many dangers to study, wrought out 
more admirably than he could have executed it, — 
a finer work even than the model at Rome, — and 
all this done by a mere apprentice, whom he had 
rated and flouted a thousand times I Then he 
was seized with a mad fit of jealous rage at hav- 
ing lost the fame he had taken such pains to 
secure, and, catching up a heavy mallet that lay 
near, he struck the apprentice to the ground. 

It was the poor youth's death-blow. He lay 
quite still, the blood gushing from a ghastly 
wound in his broad, white forehead, and darkly 
staining the rich golden curls of his hair. But 
he revived for a moment, feebly turned his head, 
fixed his eyes mournfully, yet fondly, upon his 
last beautiful work, and murmured : " I meant it 
for God's glory, master, and your gain ; " and so 
died. 

Those were days of lawless violence ; and the 



208 EDINBURGH. 

legend does not go on to tell that a coroner's in- 
quest was held over the body of the poor appren- 
tice, or that the master-builder was arrested, tried, 
and executed for his untimely taking off. Per- 
haps the man had friends, rich and respectable, 
who hushed up the unpleasant little matter ; per- 
haps he was wanted to build more churches. 
Doubtless he would have liked to remove that 
pillar, but dared not, as it was now not only a 
beautiful part of the sacred edifice, but a monu- 
ment to the innocent dead. 

But the place where it stood must ever have 
been for him a sad and haunted spot. It is not 
likely that he fancied much passing near it after 
dark. If his duties ever compelled him to visit 
the chapel at night, though he entered with ever 
so bold a brow and defiant a spirit, there entered 
with him Remorse, like an avenging angel, and 
everything he beheld seemed to speak of his crime. 
The beautiful stained windows changed the mild 
moonlight into ghastly gleams. The shadows un- 
der the great arches seemed fuU of threatening 
and horror. The little cherub-faces above the 
pillars seemed to put on looks of affright at be- 
holding him, and Madonna to draw the holy child 



THE 'PRENTICE'S PILLAR. 209 

nearer to her protecting bosom. The pale saints 
in their niches, by the stillness of their eternal 
calm, seemed to reprove him for his unholy pas- 
sions, and the piteous figure of the Lord himself, 
by its mute agony on the cross, to reproach him 
for his cruelty. Surely, the marble of that memo- 
rial pillar, gleaming in the dim light, recalled to 
him the death whiteness of a face, which neither 
coffin-lid, nor earth, nor stone could long shut 
away from the eyes of his soul. Though fearing 
and hating that stern, inexorable witness of his 
sin, he would perhaps linger long to gaze upon it, 
awe-struck by its silent, accusing beauty, till the 
snowy flowers immortally blossoming around it, 
would redden in his sight, and seem to drip with 
a dreadful dew, the blood his hand had shed in 
that holy place. 

Near Roslin, is Hawthornden, one of the love- 
liest places in all Scotland, once the seat of Drum- 
mond, a poet of the time of Elizabeth. A little 
way down the river is the village of Lasswade, — 
so called after a stout lass, who once on a time 
used to carry travellers across the ford on her 
back. I think she must have been related to 



210 EDINBURGH. 

good St. Christopher, or to Strongback, the friend 
of Prince Fortunatus. 

Other beautiful and interesting places in the 
vicinity of Edinburgh are Melville Castle, Dal- 
keith Palace, Newbattle Abbey, Dalhousie House, 
and Borthwick Castle ; a fine old fortress, famous 
as the place where Queen Mary and the Earl of 
Bothwell spent a part of their honeymoon, if so 
sweet a name can be given to the unhappy time 
they lived together. Mary escaped from this 
castle in the disguise of a page, and fled to Dun- 
bar. Then there is Crichton Castle, on the Tyne, 
— which is described in Walter Scott's poem of 
'^Marmion,^' — Oxenford Castle, and the ruins of 
Cragmillar Castle, once a favorite residence of 
Queen Mary. 

Charming excursions can be made in every di- 
rection from Edinburgh ; you cannot go amiss. 
First in interest are Abbotsford, Dryburgh, and 
Melrose ; but I will speak of these in another 
chapter. At Jedburgh there is an old Abbey, 
thought to be the most magnificent ruin in Scot- 
land ; at Kelso, there is another ruined abbey. 
Then there is battered old Norham Castle, and if 
you have enough of ruins, there are the lovely 



THE 'PEENTICE'S PILLAR. 211 

vales of Yarrow and Ettrick and Teviotdale, that 
we read so much about in Scottish poetry and 
romance. 

There is a fine old town, about twenty miles 
from Edinburgh, called Peebles, which I was sorry 
not to see. It is scarcely mentioned in history, 
except as a place sometimes visited by the king 
and court, because of its pleasant situation in a 
good hunting country, on the road to the royal 
forest of Ettrick. It is the scene of a poem by 
James the First, and of a touching little tradition 
told by Walter Scott and other poets, far better 
than I can tell it ; however I. will do my best. 



THE LAHID'S EETURN. 

Many years ago, when Nidpath Castle, near 
Peebles, was inhabited by the Earl of March, — a 
son of the Duke of Queensbury, — a young lady 
of that proud family became very tenderly at- 
tached to the Laird of Tushielaw in Ettrick For- 
est ; but when the lover waited on the Earl and 
Countess, to ask the hand of Lady Mary in mar- 
riage, it was refused with anger and scorn. A 



212 EDINBURGH. 

daughter of their noble house, they said, must 
never descend to wed a simple Scotch Laird. The 
Countess, in whose veins there ran real royal blood, 
though considerably diluted, was particularly in- 
censed at such presumption. She grew red and 
then white ; she frowned and swelled and tossed 
her head in high-bred contempt. Even her rich 
silk robe seemed to rustle indignantly, and her 
lace ruff to bristle up at the young Laird, while 
a bright red jewel which she wore on her fore- 
head, set in a band of gold, seemed to glare at 
him angrily, like a little fiery eye. But Scott of 
Tushielaw stood his ground manfully. He said 
that, though not a noble, he was a gentleman, and 
the son of a gentleman, and held that an alliance 
with him would not disgrace the proudest family 
in the kingdom. Then he left them, declaring 
that he would only take his dismissal from Lady 
Mary herself. The angry parents next summoned 
their daughter, and sternly accused her of a great 
crime, in loving out of the nobility. She pleaded 
guilty, and prayed for their consent to marry 
young Scott, shocking them very much by saying 
that she would rather be happy with his love, than 
wretched with a title and a coronet. Of course 



THE 'PRENTICE'S PILLAR. 213 

they refused, and set themselves, by commands, 
reproaches, and harsh treatment, to cause her to 
reject her lover. At last they got their Father 
Confessor to deal with her. Yery solemnly he 
argued, and warned her against the sin of diso- 
bedience ; for Heaven, he said, was always on the 
side of the parents in such cases, — especially 
parents of the nobility. Yet nothing he said 
seemed to move her, till he declared that if she 
persisted in marrying Tushielaw, she would bring 
the curse of the Church upon him, and so put his 
soul in peril. Then Lady Mary, being young and 
superstitious, burst into tears, and sobbed out, 
" Father Ambrose, don't say any more ! I will 
give him up ! " 

So she wrote a sorrowful little letter of fare- 
well to Scott of Tushielaw, while the priest stood 
over her and blessed her. The Countess of March 
sent her page in such haste with that letter, that 
the tears poor Lady Mary dropped on it were 
hardly dry when it reached the young Laird's 
hands. It seemed to pierce his heart like a sharp 
dagger ; yet he kissed it tenderly, and his own 
eyes grew dim over the words which had so 
wounded him. He treasured it up and took it 



214 EDINBUEGH. 

with him abroad, where he went to find what 
comfort he could in foreign travel. 

From the day of his going, Lady Mary drooped 
and faded, pining for the kind smile and the gen- 
tle words of the one she loved best of all the 
world. She lost her own gay smile, — her tones 
grew sad, her step slow, and the sweet red color 
went out from her cheeks and lips. Then there 
came a cough, — a very httle cough, which scarcely 
shook the muslin kerchief on her neck, but which 
sounded of death as surely as a funeral knell. 
Notliing revived or comforted her, — not the com- 
mg of the spring, with leaves and flowers, — not 
balls, nor hunting, — not even the homage of a 
great noble, a real Duke, who offered her his cor- 
onet, his castle, and his heart. 

At last she took to her couch, and the little 
cough went on, and wasted her day by day, till 
even the Earl and Countess saw that Death, and 
not the Duke, was coming for their daughter. 
They confessed to each other that there was but 
one hope for her, — the recall of her lover. It 
was a hard remedy for them, — next to death, but 
they submitted; for, after all, they loved their 
gentle child, in their way, — and they wrote to 



THE 'PRENTICE'S PILLAR. 215 

the young Laird to come home, saying that they 
would now give him the hand of the Lady Mary. 

Scott was as proud as they ; but his pride was 
of a nobler kind, and he did not refuse to come. 
He wrote to Lady Mary a glad, loving letter, and 
named the very day on which she might look for 
him at Nidpath Castle. When this letter came, 
the poor girl strove to rise from her couch and 
take into her heart the joy of life and love once 
more. But she was like a delicate lily, which, 
after its stem was broken, should try to lift its 
head towards the sun, and to catch the dew in its 
withered cup. It was too late ! 

On the afternoon of the day when her lover was 
to arrive, Lady Mary caused herself to be carried 
to a house belonging to her family, in the town of 
Peebles, through which the young Laird would 
pass on his way to the Castle. She could meet 
him so much the sooner, she said. 

A softly cushioned chair was placed for her on 
a stone balcony, over the gateway of the mansion, 
and here she sat, with her mother and her maids, 
looking and listening, till the summer sun was 
setting, and the twilight shadows began to creep 
over the hills. She seemed to listen with her 



216 EDINBUEGH. 

heart, for long before the others could distinguish 
a sound, she heard the gallop of a steed, coming 
nearer and nearer ; and then, far in the distance, 
saw and knew the rider, and clasping her hands, 
she cried : " It is he ! It is he ! mother, God 
is so good to me ! " 

It seemed hours, though it was not many min- 
utes, before the Laird reached the Queensbury 
house, and came riding along just beneath the 
balcony. Lady Mary now stood without support, 
and her glad heart sent a little glow of welcome to 
her wan cheeks. The traveller raised his head and 
looked full in her face, and she bent forward and 
smiled on him tenderly, like a sweet pale star out 
of heaven. But alas ! he had no thought of her 
being so changed by sorrow and illness. The face 
seemed like the shadow of one he had seen, or it 
was one he had dreamed of ; he could not think 
it hers. His heart was so full of memories of the 
round, healthful form, and the bright, rosy face 
of his Mary, as he had loved her first, that he did 
not know her now. So he only gave her a brief, 
cold, strange look, and galloped on. Lady Mary 
uttered a wild, mournful cry ; " mother,'^ 
she said, " he has forgotten me ! forgotten me ! " 



THE 'PKENTICE'S PILLAR. 217 

and sunk back into her chair, softly, but white 
and cold as marble. 

" Help ! " cried the Countess of March, " she 
has fainted." 

That wild, sad cry had reached the ear of her 
lover, and he knew her voice. Instantly he 
sprang from his horse and hurried to the balcony, 
where she still sat, with her weeping friends 
around her. He took her in his arms and kissed 
her, and called her " Mary," Still she did not 
stir or speak. " Help ! " cried the Countess 
again, " bring a doctor ! " But there was no 
help for her — she was dead ! 

When the young Laird saw that it was indeed 
so, he knelt by her side, and laid his face in her 
lap, and took one of her thin, white hands in 
his, and sorrowed over it. 

So it was Death, and not the great Duke, — 
Death, and not the humble Laird, — who came 
for the lovely daughter of the Earl and Countess 
of March. Not with the whiteness and brightness 
of bridal robes and flowers, — not with the fast 
ringing of merry marriage-bells, pealing out 
louder and louder, and breaking in upon one 
another like a group of happy young villagers, 

10 



218 EDINBURGH. 

ill haste to tell each other some joyful news, — 
but with the black pomp of funeral ceremonies, 
and with the slow ringing of the solitary chapel 
bell, lengthening out each heavy toll, as though 
sorry and afraid to repeat its mournful story. 

It was for Lady Mary's sake I wished to visit 
Peebles and Nidpath Castle. 



€^t Citq Crnss, 



THE "PRETENDERS.'^ 



THE " PRETENDERS. 



221 




NEAR the Royal 
Exchange Buildings, 
Edinburgh, formerly 
stood a large stone 
cross, which surmounted an eight-sided turret. 
It was demolished in 1756, and its destruction 
has always been thought a foolish act of big- 
otry. Sir "Walter Scott was especially indignant 
about it. 

From this cross, for several centuries, royal 



222 THE CITY CROSS. 

edicts, new laws, and sovereigns were proclaimed, 
with blowing of trumpets. The last Scottish king 
here proclaimed was the Chevalier de St. George, 
— or " the Pretender," as he was called by the 
English, — under the title of James the Eighth 
of Scotland, and third of England, by order of 
his son, Charles Edward, acting as Prince Regent. 
In this chapter I will endeavor to give you a con- 
densed history of these two remarkable royal per- 
sonages, and so have done with the Stuarts. 



JAMES. 

You will recollect that after King James the 
Second was driven from his home and kingdom, 
he was succeeded by his daughter, Mary, and her 
husband, William of Orange, a Protestant Prince. 
On the death of King William, who survived his 
wife several years. Queen Mary's sister, the Prin- 
cess Anne, ascended the throne. Her father had 
died in exile, after bequeathing his rights to his 
eldest son, who bore the foreign title of the Chev- 
alier de St. George. Queen Anne had no children 
at the time of her accession to the throne, and her 



THE " PRETENDEES." 223 

Protestant counsellors, who were anxious to bar 
out the Catholic Stuarts, advised her to have the 
succession fixed upon a distant relative, George, 
the Elector of Hanover, who was a Protestant. 
Queen Anne long hesitated. Her heart secretly 
yearned towards her brother, and she sometimes 
felt cruel remorse for the course she had taken 
towards her father, in turning against him, and 
accepting the crown which had been forcibly taken 
from his poor, obstinate old head. But she hardly 
had courage to propose to her Protestant subjects 
a Catholic king, and as the Chevalier was as fa- 
natically devoted to his religion as his father had 
been, there was little hope of his coming round to 
the right point. 

When James the Second escaped to France, he 
was very courteously received by the great king, 
Louis the Fourteenth, who assigned him a palace 
at St. Germain, near Paris. Here he lived, in a 
sort of idle mimicry of royal state, plotting and 
intriguing, and always expecting that something- 
would " turn up " to restore him the crown and 
kingdom which he had lost by liis stupid tyranny. 
His court was composed of exiled nobles and their 
wives, — poor and proud, — mercenary soldiers, 



224 THE CITY CROSS. 

reckless adventurers, and plenty of priests, I as- 
sure you. Here the young Prince James was 
brought up. He was constantly taught that he 
was the rightful heir to the British crown, and 
that he must regain it from the usurpers ; yet he 
was not well instructed in the duties of a king, or 
a revolutionary leader. He was a tall, handsome 
man, courteous and elegant in his manners, and 
naturally kind and amiable ; but he lacked bold- 
ness, energy, and a strong will. In short, he 
would have made a very nice, agreeable private 
gentleman, but there was little of the real kingly 
stuff about him. 

When old King James was on his death-bed, 
and very near his end, he sent word to Louis 
the Fourteenth that he desired to see him. Tlie 
" Grand Monarque,^^ as he was called, came in 
great state, as he used to go everywhere, — all 
in velvet, brocade, and gold, — high-heeled shoes, 
lace and diamonds, and in an enormous wig, that 
would have quite put out any other man, like an 
extinguisher. So he came to the dying king, and 
his flattering courtiers said that the sight*of him 
was enough to awe Death himself, and drive him 
out of that chamber. * 



THE " PKETENDERS." 225 

The old king partly raised himself in bed, to 
receive his magnificent visitor, whom he thanked 
for all his kindness ; and when the French king 
graciously waved his hand, as much as to say, 
" There is no occasion for gratitude, I have really 
done next to nothing," — James, calling the young 
Prince to his side, continued : " Yet for all your 
kindness, my dear royal brother, I must leave 
you but a troublesome legacy, — my son and his 
fortunes. Show to him, I pray you, the same 
magnanimous friendship you have shown to me, 
discrowned and despoiled of my kingly rights. 
Promise me this, and receive the blessing of a 
dying man." 

" I promise," replied Louis. " I will take him 
and his under my protection. I will recognize 
his right to the throne of Britain, — I will aid 
him in winning his crown. So, my brother, de- 
part in peace, — if you really must go." 

On hearing this, James was affected to tears, 
though being a king, he ought to have known 
what king's promises were worth ; his courtiers 
also wept, — the young Chevalier wept, and even 
the great Louis put his embroidered handkerchief 
to his eyes, — when, as it was his courtiers' duty 

10* o 



226 THE CITY CROSS. 

to believe that he was weeping copiously, they 
entirely broke down, and abandoned themselves 
to tears of admiration and grief. 

When King Louis had composed himself, he 
bade King James a solemn adieu, and swept from 
the chamber in all his glory and majesty, — and 
then it did seem as if Death had been waiting 
respectfully in the anteroom, and only came in 
when he went out ; for King James began to sink 
immediately. He bade an affectionate farewell to 
his family and court, then turned to his confessor, 
and taking his crucifix, pressed it to his lips, and 
said prayer after prayer till he died. 

This generous and solemn promise of Louis 
the Fourteenth gave great encouragement to the 
Jacobites, as the adherents of the Stuarts were 
called, from Jacobus, the Latin for James. After 
much delay and many secret negotiations, Louis 
actually furnished the Chevalier with an army 
of five thousand men, and despatched him to 
Dunkirk, where he was to sail for Scotland, in a 
fleet under the command of the Count de Forbin. 
Could they have sailed at once, the enterprise 
might have been successful, as a large party in 
Scotland were favorable to it, and England was 



THE " PKETENDEES." 227 

illy prepared to resist it, the greater part of 
her army being in Flanders. But, just then, 
the luckless Chevalier was taken down with the 
measles, — a bad enough disease under any cir- 
cumstances, but in this case it may have lost the 
Prince a kingdom ; for it gave the English time 
to prepare so well for the invasion, by land and 
sea, that, though the French fleet actually reached 
the Frith of Forth, the Count de Forbin refused 
to land the Chevalier and his troops, but took 
them all back to France as speedily as possible. 
Louis seems to have thought that he had re- 
deemed his promise, or his memory was remarka- 
bly short, for not long afterwards he signed a 
treaty, called " the treaty of Utrecht," in which 
he acknowledged Queen Anne's right to the 
throne, and actually agreed to expel her brother 
from his dominions. So poor James was obhged 
to seek another refuge. For some time he cher- 
ished hopes that his sister Aime would help to re- 
store his rights to him; but, as I have said, though 
her heart favored him, she lacked courage to avow 
her wish, and she died without naming him as 
her successor. The English people imported 
their next sovereign, — the Elector of Hanover, 



228 THE CITY CROSS. 

— who reigned under the title of George the 
First. After him came three other Georges, then 
William the Fourth, then Queen Victoria, the 
best and most beloved of the race. This change 
of royal families is what is meant by the " Hano- 
verian succession." 

King George did not behave in a magnanimous 
or politic way towards the Scottish Jacobites. He 
even refused to receive a loyal address from sev- 
eral Highland chiefs, represented by the Earl of 
Mar. By so doing, he offended them all, and 
especially Mar, whom he afterwards found a very 
troublesome enemy. 

In September, 1715, many Jacobite nobles and 
gentlemen assembled at Aboyne, and proclaimed 
the Chevalier de St. George King of England, 
Ireland, and their dependencies, under the title 
of James the Third, and of Scotland under that 
of James the Eightli. The leaders set about rais- 
ing a revolutionary army at once. The High- 
land chiefs, as you know, were supreme rulers of 
their clans : they did not invite, but commanded 
them to rally and fight for their true prince. 

After an ancient custom, they raised recruits by 
sending " the fiery cross " through the different 



THE " PEETENDEES." 229 

clans. This cross was composed of two branches 
of wood, one partly burned with fire and the 
other stained with blood, — to signify that, if any 
Scot to whom it should be sent should fail to 
present himself at a certain place, which should 
be named to him, he would be punished by fire 
and sword. This symbol was sent from house to 
house, and man to man, and none dared to disre- 
gard' it. Yet few of the Highlanders needed any 
threats at this time. Most of them were passion- 
ately attached to the cause of the Stuarts, were 
dissatisfied with the union with England, and dis- 
gusted with the new king. 

The Jacobites took the town of Perth, which 
gave them great advantages, — but unfortunately, 
their leader. Mar, was a poor general, and most 
of the other chiefs were more brave and enthu- 
siastic than skilful or prudent. There were use- 
less delays, — there were mistakes and disagree- 
ments, and no decisive engagement took place 
till the battle of Sherifimuir was fought in No- 
vember. Both armies claimed the victory, but 
the Jacobites lost by far the most men, and were 
obliged to retreat, which surely was as like being 
beaten as possible. 



230 THE CITY CROSS. 

About the same time fourteen hundred of the 
rebel forces were surrounded at Preston, and 
compelled to surrender. The leaders were con- 
ducted to London, bound like felons, and many 
of them put to death. They suffered bravely, for 
as a general thing these adherents of the Stuarts 
were grandly heroic men. 

At last, in December, 1715, the Chevalier 
himself arrived. He had embarked at Dunkirk, 
in the disguise of a sailor, with only six followers, 
also disguised, on a small vessel loaded with a 
cargo of brandy. Yet he failed to impart spirits 
to the Jacobites. Things had been so badly man- 
aged, — all felt so discouraged by defeat, and 
weakened, as it were, by the loss of so much noble 
blood, shed in vam, — that not even the presence 
of him they believed their rightful king could give 
them hope and strengh. Moreover, the Cheva- 
lier himself was disheartened and ill. It was not 
the measles this time, but the ague, which seemed 
to have shaken all the courage and will out of 
him. After a few miserable attempts at royalty 
and generalship, but without fighting a single 
battle, he abandoned the enterprise, and, with the 
Earl of Mar, escaped to the Continent, leaving his 



THE "PRETENDERS." ' 231 

army, beset by a powerful force under the Duke 
of Argyle, to save themselves if they could. 

So ended the rebellion of 1715 ; a humiliating 
termination, which one would suppose might have 
cured the Scots of their mad attachment to the 
Stuarts, but it did not. 



CHARLES EDWARD. 

Soon after the Chevalier returned to the Conti- 
nent, he married the Princess Clementina Sobi- 
eski, of Poland, the heiress to an immense fortune, 
who thought, simple girl, that she was making a 
magnificent marriage, and doubtless looked for- 
ward to sharing the tlirone of Great Britain with 
her husband, now poor, powerless, crownless, and 
hunted from all the courts of Europe, the Pope's 
excepted. 

There were two children from this marriage. 
Charles Edward, born in 1720, to whom the Jaco- 
bites gave the title of Prince of Wales, — and, 
five years after, Benedict, Duke of York, who en- 
tered the Church, and was made a cardmal. 

Charles Edward was bred up to win back the 



232 THE CITY CKOSS. 

lost crown of the Stuarts ; and as soon as he grew 
to manhood, he was urged on to his great work. 
Poor fellow, he was worthy of a better fate, — 
for he was by nature noble, brave, persevering, 
kind-hearted, and affable. He was tall, fair, and 
handsome, though his face had rather a melan- 
choly expression. But he was not much better 
calculated to make a good king than his father. 
He knew little of the science of government, or 
the true character of the English people. Be- 
sides being a zealous Papist, he was a devout 
believer in the " divine right of kings " to do pre- 
cisely as they pleased in all things, and at all 
times, — a false and foolish doctrine, which cost 
his father and grandfather a crown, and his great- 
grandfather his head beside. He was haughty 
and extremely selfish, though always courteous, 
and sometimes very gentle and winning in his 
manner. 

The king and the prince — or the Chevalier de 
St. George and the Chevalier Douglas, or the two 
Pretenders — kept up a secret correspondence 
with the English and Scottish Jacobites for sev- 
eral years, and on the first opportunity which 
seemed at all favorable, Charles Edward set out 



THE " PEETENDERS." 233 

on another rash and romantic expedition, for the 
old cause. He acted as regent for his father. 
He landed in Scotland in July, 1745, and was 
warmly welcomed by a few devoted Jacobites, 
who were ready to struggle and die, if need be, 
for the house of Stuart. 

The prince was certainly not wanting in 
promptness. He at once caused his standard to 
be raised, and called on his countrymen, espe- 
cially the Highlanders, to rally around their true 
prince. He marched rapidly from point to point, 
and kindled a wild flame of enthusiasm as he 
went. The Highlands resounded with loyal 
shouts, songs, and battle-cries, and the fierce 
mountaineers came rushing down from glens and 
forests and rocky fastnesses, in mad haste to offer 
themselves to " Royal Charlie." He received 
them all with gracious condescension, but he did 
not say or feel that they were doing anything 
more than simple duty in devoting to him their 
swords and their lives. He thought that all who 
acknowledged him as the rightful prince belonged 
to him, and he made as free with their blood and 
their money for his purposes, as with their wine 
and venison when they feasted him. 



234 THE CITY CROSS. 

Success followed success, till all Scotland was 
roused and England in a terrible state of conster- 
nation. Greorge the Second was now king. He, 
like his father, was little calculated to win the af- 
fection or admiration of his subjects. The con- 
trast between his majesty, who was a gross, dull 
man, and the elegant, handsome young Chevalier, 
was very great, and, for my part, I am afraid I 
should have gone with the Highlanders for " Bon- 
nie Prince Charlie." 

In September, the city of Edinburgh was taken 
by the Laird of Lochiel, the prince's greatest 
leader, when Charles Edward took possession of 
the Palace of Holyrood. Here he established a 
court, which, in spite of the times, became very 
gay and brilliant. The prince and his nobles 
were, however, soon called to sterner scenes. 
They met the English at Preston, and won a fa- 
mous victory. Their next undertaking was a 
march southward, with the bold purpose of driv- 
ing King George from his own capital. But after 
reaching Derby, they were obliged to retreat, 
much to the rage and shame of the rash Cheva- 
lier. The next important event was the battle 
of Falkirk, which the prince won, but it did not 



THE " PEETENDEES." 235 

advantage Mm much, for he was soon after it 
obliged to retire to the HighUinds with his forces. 

I have not space to relate the history of the re- 
bellion from this to the great closing battle of 
Culloden, which took place on the 16th of April, 
1746. On this most terrible day. King George's 
forces, regular soldiers, were commanded by the 
Duke of Cumberland, and were 9,000 strong, 
opposed to only about 5,000 undisciplined High- 
landers. Yet the prince's followers showed at 
first no signs of dismay at the odds against 
them. They shouted cheerily and sounded the 
wild Pibroch on their bagpipes, and rushed into 
battle with their old impetuosity. But they were 
met at all points with such steady, obstinate 
valor, and attacked with such overwhelming 
force, that they were soon disconcerted and 
driven back with dreadful loss. Some clans 
proved cowardly and treacherous, refusing to 
fight, and flying early from the field. 

Though Prince Charles behaved gallantly 
enough while he had hope, he fled as fast and 
as far as any of them when he saw that the bat- 
tle was lost. The Duke of Cumberland sent 
his dragoons in pursuit of the flying, command- 



236 THE CITY CROSS. 

ing them to show no mercy, but to cut down all 
they could overtake. And they did it, — perhaps 
willingly, perhaps reluctantly ; but the shame and 
crime of the inhuman slaughter rested, and al- 
ways will rest, with the Duke himself. The 
flower of the Jacobite nobility and gentry were 
slain in this battle, or executed for treason after- 
wards, and mourning and desolation were brought 
to thousands of happy Scottish homes. 

It would take a volume to contain a faithful 
history of all Charles Edward's wanderings, per- 
ils, and adventures, from the day of his defeat at 
Culloden to that of his escape to France, five 
months after ; for during all that time he was a 
hunted fugitive. Of course I cannot relate them 
here at length. 

The prince first sought refuge in the west 
Highlands, where he met some of his adherents, 
whom he told, in his old, hopeful, undaimted 
way, that he intended to run over to France, 
for supplies and reinforcements, and return speed- 
ily to strike another blow for the good cause, — 
to settle the affairs of the Guelphs of Hanover. 
Some, as rash and sanguine as he, were com- 
forted by these words ; but some sighed and 



THE " PRETENDEKS." 237 

shook their heads ; none reproached him, except 
it was by the blood of their wounds, yet un- 
washed from their torn garments, and the deep 
despair in their eyes. 

Prince Charles next embarked for the Long 
Island, near the Isle of Skye, on the western 
coast of Scotland, where he hoped to find some 
sort of a vessel to take him to France. He 
landed at South Uist, where he was met by 
Clanranald, a faithful follower, who, for safety, 
procured him a humble lodging in a forester's 
hut. But even here he was not long secure. 
General Campbell, the MacDonalds of Skye, Mac- 
Leod of MacLeod, and other Scots to the num- 
ber of two thousand, who might have been in 
better business than hunting their true prince, 
came down upon the island, and eagerly searched 
it from north to south and east to west. It was 
at this time that Prince Charles met with his 
most romantic adventure. It happened that a 
beautiful young lady. Miss Flora MacDonald, 
was once on a visit to the Clanranalds of South 
Uist, and, hearing of the Chevalier's peril, 
nobly undertook to rescue him. Her stepfather 
was in command of the MacDonalds, then on 



238 THE CITY CROSS. 

the island in search of him, and all her clan 
"were an ti- Jacobites ; but few Scottish women 
were in heart ever opposed to the gallant young 
prince, and Flora's heart was now greatly touched 
by his misfortunes. She was not long in laying 
her plans, nor slow in carrying them out. She 
applied to her stepfather for a pass for herself, 
a man-servant, and a maid-servant, proposing to 
return to the Isle of Skye. She obtained the 
passport without difficulty, — Charles Edward 
disguising himself, and passing for the maid- 
servant. Only think of it, — the splendid Chev- 
alier assuming the dress and manner of a poor 
Scotch lass, and adding to his other appellations 
and titles the name of Betty Burke ! But ele- 
gant as the prince was in his own dress, he was 
ungraceful enough in this. Indeed, he came 
very near betraying himself many times by his 
awkwardness. He would every now and then 
strike into a grand princely stride, and, when 
reminded of it, would curb himself down into 
little mincing steps that everybody laughed to 
see. He did not seem to know just what to do 
with his hands ; and when he sat down he was 
afraid to get up, lest he should entangle his feet 



THE "PRETENDERS." 239 

ill his skirts. He did not dare to trust his voice ; 
so he concluded to say nothing to any one, which, 
of course, excited suspicions that he was not a 
woman. Yes, there were those who suspected 
Miss Betty Burke to be no better than a Stuart 
in disguise ; but if they were tempted to betray 
their prince, and so win the reward, there was 
something in Flora MacDonald's eye which made 
them afraid and ashamed to commit such a 
treacherous act. So the party all got safely to 
the Isle of Skye. But the prince was not yet 
in security, though liidden in a dark cave by the 
wild sea-shore. Sir Alexander MacDonald was 
makmg a rigid search over the island. In this 
extremity. Flora did what many men would call 
a very rash thing, — confided her secret to another 
woman, and that woman the wife of Sir Alexan- 
der. Lady Margaret was frightened ; but she 
was generous and true, and never once thought 
of betraying the unfortunate prince to her hus- 
band. She concluded to confide the fugitive to 
the care of MacDonald of Kingsburg. Flora 
accompanied her charge to the house of this 
MacDonald, who received him respectfully and 
promised him his protection ; not only because 



240 THE CITY CKOSS. 

he was his prince, but a fellow-man in deadly 
peril ; and not from fear, but love of Flora Mac- 
Donald, who had captivated him by her generous 
heroism. 

From Kingsburg the prince went to the island 
of Rasa, where he suifered great privations, and 
from thence back to Scotland, where he wandered 
and wandered, in want and weariness and peril, 
— everywhere hunted, but everywhere finding 
friends, who, though poor and wretched like him- 
self, were too proud and noble to win wealth by 
betraying him to his enemies. For several weeks, 
he took refuge in a cavern with seven other out- 
laws, who had taken to robbing " as the only way 
of gaining an honest livelihood," they said. 
Prince Charles was in no condition to be over- 
scrupulous, so he allowed them to procure him a 
change of clothes from the first well-dressed trav- 
eller they could waylay, and ate and drank what 
they set before him, " asking no questions for 
conscience' sake." 

Charles Edward owed his final escape to a sin- 
gular piece of devotion and forethought. There 
was a young officer of his army who was said to 
look remarkably like him, — one Roderick Mac- 



THE " PKETENDERS." 241 

Kinzie, now a fugitive like himself, who was one 
day overtaken by the King's troops, and mortally 
wounded. As he lay in his last agonies, he 
looked up at his murderers and exclaimed, " Ah, 
villains, you have slain your prince ! " This was 
a falsehood certainly, but there was something so 
noble about it that one can hardly condemn it, — 
at all events, it saved the prince's life, for Rod- 
erick's words were believed, and his head was 
taken off and sent to London. Here the mistake 
was discovered ; but in the mean time, the search 
for the prince was given over in Scotland, and he 
had time to make his escape. He sailed for 
France from Lochnannah with Lochiel and about 
an hundred others, on the 15th of September, and 
landed at Morlaix on the 29th ; and so ended the 
last attempt of the Stuarts to regain the throne 
of their ancestors. Not that they ever wholly 
abandoned their pretensions and their plans, — 
they clung to them desperately for a long time. 
But they no longer found many others mad 
enough to sacrifice their all for a cause so hope- 
less. And the world went on, — the scaffold 
ceased to drip with the blood of their followers, 
and the prison to echo their groans. The grass 
11 p 



242 THE CITY CROSS. 

sprang up long and rank on the battle-field of 
CuUoden, — over the ashes of homes desolated in 
their wars, over the graves of men who had 
died broken-hearted for their sakes, of mothers 
and wives made childless and widowed by their 
ambition, — the pibroch was sounded no longer 
among the wild Highlands, — the fiery cross was 
borne no more from house to house, a portent of 
battle and death, — and the Stuarts were for- 
gotten. 

Once, as I was strolling about a damp, mouldy 
old church in Frascati, a little town among the 
Alban hills, near Rome, I suddenly came upon a 
marble slab in the wall, with a Latin inscription, 
which said that under it was buried Charles Ed- 
ward, King of England, Scotland, and Ireland, 
So here he lay, the gallant prince, the accom- 
plished chevalier, the darling royal Charlie of the 
Scots. 

He died at Rome in 1788, but it seems was 
buried here, in his brother's cathedral, though 
there is a great Stuart monument in St. Peter's 
Church. The latter part of his life was unhappy 
and discreditable. It seems it would have been 



THE " PRETENDEES." 243 

better if he had fallen in his noblest days on his 
last battle-field, and been buried there. There 
his royal blood might at least have nourished a 
daisy or a wild lily, and his memory would have 
haunted the spot like the pure air and the sun- 
shine. Here is no light, no freshness, nothing 
but shadow and mould, and that pompous Latin 
epitaph, claiming for his poor dust the crown he 
vainly grasped after all his life. 

Now a few words about Flora MacDonald. 
After the escape of Charles Edward, she and her 
brave lover were arrested and imprisoned in the 
Tower ; but the king was soon obliged from 
very shame to pardon and release them. Then 
Flora became, as they say, "all the rage" in 
London. Everybody crowded to see her, honored 
and applauded her. Even the king's eldest son, 
Prince Frederick, praised her generous heroism. 
Perhaps he thought in such revolutionary times, 
he might need such loyal devotion as well as the 
other Prince of Wales, and believed in encourag- 
ing such things. 

The gifts bestowed upon Flora by her numer- 
ous admirers amounted to no less than fifteen 
hundred pounds, — quite a little fortune, which 



244 THE CITY CROSS. 

she bestowed upon MacDonald of Kingsburg, 
with what was infinitely more precious, her love 
and her hand in marriage. These two noble Mac- 
Donalds resided for a while in America, but they 
returned to pass their last years in the Isle of 
Skye. Their graves are in the churchyard of 
Kilmuir. The tombstone of the heroine was 
once inlaid with a marble slab, but this has been 
broken and carried off bit by bit, by curious tour- 
ists. Yet she did not need it ; her beautiful fame 
is better than a hundred epitaphs. Flora Mac- 
Donald, the fairest flower that ever bloomed in 
the rough path of her prince's hard fortunes, 
giving a tender grace to his tragic story, and 
sweetening his memory in the heart of the 
world. 



Mtlmt - IhlinMarii. - injturgjr. 



SIR WALTER SCOTT, 



SIE WALTEK SCOTT. 



24T 




IT was on a cool 
and breezy autunm 
morning, now sunny, 
and now showery, 
that we bade adieu to dear old Edinburgh, and 
turned our faces towards England, intending to 
visit a few remarkable places on our way. We 
stopped first at Melrose, to see the ruined Ab- 
bey which Sir Walter Scott has made famous 
by his " Lay of the Last Minstrel." 



248 MELROSE. — ABBOTSFORD. — DRYBURGH. 

Melrose, about thirty-seven miles from Edin- 
burgh, is situated on the Tweed, a small but beau- 
tiful river, and above it rise the gray Eildon Hills, 
long famed in song and story. The Abbey, the 
most magnificent and perfect specimen of Gothic 
architecture existing in Scotland, was founded 
in 1136 by David the First, was destroyed by Ed- 
ward the Second, and rebuilt by Robert Bruce. 
It was afterwards greatly injured at various times 
by the English, but finally made a complete ruin 
of by the Protestants, at the Reformation. Yet 
there is enough of it still remaining to give one 
an imposing idea of its beauty and grandeur. Its 
sculpture is still wonderful to see, and the ivy 
and wall-flowers which grow all about among the 
ruins are not more perfect and graceful than the 
stone vines, flowers, and foliage in the windows 
and arches, and around the mighty pillars, — 
carved so many hundred years ago. 

A host of noble knights, and a king or two, 
have been buried in Melrose Abbey. Many of 
the warlike family of Douglas sleep the long sleep 
in this desolate but lovely place. Robert Bruce 's 
heart, which travelled so far and went through so 
many adventures after it was out of his body, was 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 249 

at last deposited here under the high altar, where 
it long ago mingled with common dust. But his 
noble fame yet lives, and beats on, like a brave, 
strong heart, in the life of his country. 

As I was standing opposite one of the great 
windows of the Abbey, admiring its exquisite 
sculptures, the old guide, pointing to a fallen 
pillar, said, '' That, madam, was the favorite 
seat o' Sir Walter Scott. Mony 's the time I 
liae seen him sitting there, leaning on his staff, 
wi' his dogs at his feet, and the great thoughts 
glissting and glowering in his een." 

I sat down on this pillar for a moment, with 
more reverence than I had felt a few months 
before, while sitting in Westminster Abbey on 
the " Stone of Scone," on which so many Scot- 
tish and English monarchs had been crowned. 

From Melrose we drove a few miles to Abbots- 
ford, the seat of Sir Walter Scott. This is one 
of the most noble and beautiful residences in all 
Scotland. It is situated on the south bank of 
the Tweed, near its junction with the Gala, sur- 
rounded by a fine picturesque country, and in 
full sight of the Eildon Hills. 

The delightful grounds, of Abbotsford are now 
11* 



250 MELEOSE. — ABBOTSFOED. — DEYBUEGH. 

as they were planned and planted by Sir Walter. 
The house is of the Go'thic style, with a great 
many towers and gables, irregular and peculiar, 
but very stately and beautiful. 

We entered by a handsome porch, ornamented 
with petrified stag-horns, into a lofty hall, paved 
with black and white marble, brought from the 
Hebrides, and panelled with richly carved oak, 
from the old royal palace of Dumfermline. The 
walls are hung with ancient arms, and decorated 
with the armorial crests of the great Scottish 
families of the borders. From this we passed 
into the armory, where, among many curious 
specimens of arms, we saw Montrose's sword and 
Kob Roy's gun, — two of Sir Walter's greatest 
treasures. 

At one end of the armory is the drawing-room, 
a very elegant apartment, lined with cedar-wood, 
and furnished with ebony, and containing several 
curious and costly carved cabinets. At the other 
end is the dining-room, a spacious and lofty sa- 
loon, with a ceiling of black oak. Here Sir Wal- 
ter entertained not only his many friends, but 
countless strangers and foreign travellers, with a 
hospitality like that of the great-hearted barons 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 251 

of old. This room contains several fine pictures, 
and interesting family portraits ; among the latter 
is a likeness of Sir Walter when he was a little 
boy. It represents a delicate, fair-haired child ; 
but the expression is very thoughtful and ear- 
nest, and the head has a grand, prophetic look 
about it. 

The next room I recollect is a charming little 
breakfast parlor, looking out upon the Tweed, 
and the hills of Ettrick and Yarrow. Then there 
is the library, the largest room in the house. It 
has a roof of oak, carved after beautiful models in 
Roslin Castle. The collection of books is a very 
rare one, and amounts to twenty thousand vol- 
umes. Out of the library opens the study, — a 
small, neat apartment, containing a few books, 
and furnished only with a plain writing-table and 
an arm-chair. Here Sir Walter used to write. 

In a small closet, opening out of the study, 
are kept the clothes which Sir Walter last wore 
about the grounds of Abbot sford. It is a very 
plain country-suit, — a dark-blue coat, with large 
buttons, plaid trousers, a pair of thick shoes, a 
broad-brimmed hat, and a sturdy walking-stick. 
The sight of these, more than anything else in 



252 MELROSE. — ABBOTSFORD. — DRYBURGH. 

that house, touched my heart. No costly royal 
robes, glittering with diamonds and pearls, could 
ever seem to me so worthy of reverence as these 
plain, homely garments, on which must have 
fallen many tears of tender love and sorrow, 
worth more than all the jewels in the world. 

We went away from Abbotsford very thought- 
ful and sad, and did not say much to each other 
throughout our drive to Dryburgh Abbey. Here, 
in a lovely, lonely spot, in the midst of a noble 
old ruin, overgrown with ivy, wall-flowers, and 
sweet wild-roses. Sir Walter was buried beside 
his dear wife, — and here since his eldest son 
has been laid. 

Sir Walter loved to visit this beautiful ruin, 
which was once the property of his ancestors, and 
it seems a fitting and grand place for him to rest 
in, after all the toils, cares, and sorrows of his 
hard, though splendid life. 

I think, dear children, that I cannot make a 
better close to this volume of sketches and recol- 
lections of Scotland, than by relating a true and 
wonderful, though perhaps you will think rather 
a sad story : — 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 253 



THE LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

Walter Scott, the son of Walter Scott, was born 
in Edinburgh, in 1771. His father, a lawyer of 
some repute, who belonged to an old and highly 
respectable family, was a man of good mind and 
excellent heart ; his mother, the daughter of an 
eminent physician, was an amiable and intellect- 
ual lady. 

Mr. and Mrs. Scott had twelve children, but 
all, except four sons and one daughter, died in 
infancy. Walter was one of the youngest. He 
was a strong and healthy child, till he was about 
eighteen months old, when, after a little attack 
of fever, resultmg from teething, he lost the use 
of his right leg. 

The best physicians of Edinburgh were called 
to see him, and everything which they believed 
or imagined could help him was done ; but all in 
vain. At last, the doctors gave up, — just in time 
to save his life, probably, and he was sent to his 
grandfather Scott's, for the benefit of country air. 
Here he remained for several years, most kindly 
and tenderly cared for, and improving in health 



254 MELROSE. — ABBOTSFORD. — DRYBURGH. 

and strength, but not wholly recovering from his 
lameness. Indeed, he suffered from it, more or 
less, to the day of his death. 

There was an old shepherd on his grandfather's 
farm of whom little Walter was very fond. This 
man, " Auld Sandy Ormistoun," used to take 
him on his shoulders, and carry him out to the 
hills where he was watching his flocks. Here 
the child would roll about on the soft, green turf, 
among the sheep and lambs, and watch the white 
fleecy clouds floating above him, — thinking, per- 
haps, that they looked like another flock of sheep, 
in the great fields of the sky, — and be quiet and 
good and happy, hour after hour. One day the 
shepherd left him alone, and went down to the 
house for something, and while he was gone a 
thunder-storm came up. Then his Aunt Jenny, 
remembering where he was, ran to the hills to 
bring him home. She expected to find him 
dreadfully frightened ; but he was lying on his 
ba-ck, looking up at the flashes of lightning, 
and exclaiming : " Bonnie ! bonnie ! " 

When Walter was about six years old, he was 
taken to Bath, England, for the benefit of the 
waters ; which, however, did not do him much 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 255 

good. While here, he saw, for the first time, a 
play acted. There was a scene in this which rep- 
resented a quarrel between two brothers, and the 
affectionate little fellow was so much shocked at 
it, that he cried out indignantly : " Ain't they 
brothers ? " 

On returning from Bath, Walter, after a little 
visit to his home, went back to his grandfather's, 
where he throve best. He was mostly under the 
care of his Aunt Jenny, a good and beautiful 
woman, but his grandparents and his kind Uncle 
Thomas were very fond of him. His grandfather 
u-sed to tell him stories, and his grandmother 
wooild repeat ballads to him, and almost as soon 
as he could talk, he showed a remarkable fond- 
ness for such things. 

By degrees, he grew strong enough to walk, 
then to run and climb among the rocks and crags. 
At last, he got quite above riding old Sandy Or- 
mistoun, but learned to canter about on a Shet- 
land pony, no larger than a Newfoundland dog. 
Indeed, she was so small that he used to ride her 
into the house. He fed her wit'i his own hands, 
and called her " Marion." 

But though he grew to be a merry, sturdy, 



256 MELKOSE. — ABBOTSFORD. — DRYBUEGH. 

manly boy, Walter was always gentle and good. 
As one of the old servants said, long afterwards : 
" He was a sweet-tempered bairn ; a darling with 
all the house." 

When he was about eight years old, he returned 
home to live and go to school. He was not con- 
sidered one of the first scholars in the institu- 
tion he attended, — the Edinburgh High School, 
for he lacked ambition and diligence, — but he 
was always thouglit a remarkably able and quick- 
witted boy. His memory was really wonderful. 
There was no end to the songs, ballads, and fairy 
tales which he had by heart. If anything struck 
his fancy, he could remember it without difficulty. 
His father rather discouraged his passion for po- 
etry and romance, but his mother, who was also 
poetic in her tastes, used to read with him, and 
listen to his fine recitations with delight. He was 
greatly beloved by his schoolmates, who eagerly 
crowded around him in play hours, to listen to 
his stories, and who were sure of his help and 
sympathy in all their boyish difficulties and sor- 
rows. 

He did not study as assiduously as he should 
have done, and he afterwards regretted this ; but 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 257 

he read constantly, and so laid up, in his own 
irregular way, a vast store of information. He 
could not be brought to love Greek and Latin, 
but he learned to read, mostly by himself, Ger- 
man, Spanish, and Italian, and he spoke French 
very well. He never let his lameness and awk- 
ward limp keep him from exercising with the 
other boys, and after a while he distinguished 
himself by feats of strength and daring. He 
grew tall and robust, and used to take long walks 
into the country, with his favorite schoolfellows, 
sometimes taking an arm of one of them, and 
always making use of a cane.. 

At sixteen, he entered upon an apprentice- 
ship to his father. He was faithful and diligent 
in business, but he still found time for reading 
and the manly sports in which he had such de- 
hght. During this apprenticeship he made sev- 
eral excursions into the Highlands, on business, 
and there acquired much information, which he 
afterwards made excellent use of. Indeed, 
wherever he went, through all his life, from 
everything he saw and heard, he learned some- 
thing useful. 

There are many interesting anecdotes told of 



258 MELROSE. — ABBOTSFORD. — DRYBURGH. 

Walter Scott in his youth, but I have room for 
only one, which seems to me very beautiful. 

One winter, while attending the lectures of the 
celebrated Dugald Stewart, upon Moral Philoso- 
phy, he used to sit beside a young man who 
seemed in humble circumstances, but who had an 
interesting and modest manner, and was evi- 
dently a diligent student. Scott liked him, and 
of course he liked Scott, — everybody did. Yet, 
though they became quite familiar friends, and 
often had long walks, and frank, cordial talks 
together, Walter noticed that his companion 
never said anything about his own home, or par- 
entage. One day, as Scott was returning alone 
from a ramble, he was struck by the venerable 
appearance of a " Bluegown^'' a beggar of the 
most respectable class, who was standing by the 
way-side, leaning on his staff, and silently holding 
out his hat for alms. Scott gave him some 
money, and passed on. Several times after he 
found him in the same place and gave him alms, 
and once this happened when he was walking 
with the poor student. As he dropped his gift 
into the extended hat, he noticed a strange ex- 
pression on the young man's face, and, as they 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 259 

went on, he asked : " Do you know anything to 
the old man's discredit, Willie ? " 

His friend burst mto tears, as he answered: 
" no, God forbid, but I am a poor wretch to 
be ashamed to speak to him, — he is my own fa- 
ther ! He has enough laid by to serve him for 
his own old days, but he stands bleaching his 
head in the wind, that he may get the means to 
pay for my education." 

Scott felt deeply for the poor fellow's mortify- 
ing situation ; he soothed him, comforted him, 
kept his secret, and never once thought of drop- 
ping his acquaintance. He was too noble for 
that. If he had not been, I should not now be 
writing his life with so much love in my heart. 

Some time after, when the lectures were over, 
Walter one day met the old "Bluegown," who, 
looking all round to see that nobody could over- 
hear him, said : "I find, sir, that you have 
been very kind to my Willie. He had often 
spoken of it before I saw you together. Will 
you pardon such a liberty, and give me the 
honor of seeing you under my poor roof? Wil- 
lie has not been well, and it would do him good 
to see your face." 



260 MELKOSE. — ABBOTSFORD. — DRYBURGH. 

Of course, Scott went. He found his humble 
friends living in a neat little cabin at St. Leon- 
ard's, near Edinburgh. Willie, very pale and 
thin, from his illness, was sitting on a stone bench 
by the door, looking for his coming, and was very 
glad and grateful when he saw him. During this 
visit, the old man talked of his plans and hopes 
for his darling son, and said: "Please God, I 
may live to see my bairn wag his head in a pul- 
pit yet." 

When Scott returned home, he confided the 
story of Willie to his mother, and so much inter- 
ested her in him that she exerted her influence 
and obtained for him the situation of tutor in 
a gentleman's family, after which his poor old 
father gave up begging and lived upon his sav- 
ings. 

So when Willie came to "wag his head in a 
pulpit," he had to thank the friendship of his 
fellow-student, then a great man. I hope he did 
not boast of him in public, but remembered him 
when he prayed alone. 

When Walter Scott was about twenty-eight, an 
advocate of some distinction, and just becoming 
known as a poet, he visited the English lakes, and 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 261 

while stopping at Gilsland, he one morning saw 
a beautiful young lady on horseback. He was 
charmed both by her sweet face and her graceful 
riding, — he made her acquaintance, and liked 
her so well, that as soon as he could win her love, 
he married her. So Miss Charlotte Margaret Car- 
penter became Mrs. Walter Scott, to the satisfac- 
tion of all his friends. At this time, the poet is 
described as tall and handsome, with a glowing, 
kindly, honest face, — now playful as a child's, 
now thoughtful and dreamy, but always sweet 
and gentle. He had an intense love for every- 
thing beautiful, high, and honorable, and a manly 
scorn of meanness, pretension, and coarseness. 
He had no vices, no follies, and no enemies. He 
was sincere, simple, and courteous to all ; and, 
great as his intellect was, his heart was still 
greater. 

Shortly after his marriage, Scott was appointed 
Sheriff of Selkirkshire, and some years later, 
Clerk of Session, — offices which he long filled 
with faithfulness and honor. He was thirty-four 
when he published his first long poem, " Tlie Lay 
of the Last Minstrel^" which at once made him a 
famous man. He was then living in a beautiful 



262 MELROSE. — ABBOTSFORD. — DRYBURGH. 

country-place, called Ashestiel, and had four chil- 
dren, — Sophia, Walter, Anne, and Charles. He 
never had any more, but God in his goodness 
spared all these till he was gone, and then let 
them follow him soon. Walter Scott was a care- 
ful and tender father. He loved the society of his 
children, and was never disturbed by their play 
and prattle. They sat at the same table with 
him, walked and rode with him, and came into his 
study at all times. He talked with them, told 
them stories and ballads, taught them to be truth- 
ful and courageous, and took part in all their 
pleasures and sorrows. And the children, though 
they deeply honored and loved " papa," did not 
fear him, or have any uncomfortable awe in his 
presence. In the dreariest weather, they were 
content and merry if he were at home, and they 
could not enjoy the pleasantest excursion, if he 
were not along. 

It was said of Scott, that " he was a gentleman, 
even to his dogs." He was more, — a merciful 
Christian man to all dumb creatures. On Sunday 
he would not use his horses, for, he said, " they 
also needed a day of rest," but after church ser- 
vice, he would walk out with his family and his 



SIE WALTER SCOTT. 263 

dogs, and, when the weather would allow, dine 
with them in the open air. At these times he 
gave liis children religious instruction, and told 
them Bible stories in such a simple, pleasant way, 
as to make them think Sunday the happiest day 
of the week. 

There were always several fine dogs in Walter 
Scott's family, who were pets and playfellows for 
the children, and almost companions for their 
master. The most famous of them were Camp, 
a terrier, and Maida, a stag-hound. These two 
were several times painted, by great artists. 
Maida grew so tired of being " taken," at last, 
that as soon as she saw any one preparing to make 
a sketch of her, she would get up and walk off in 
disgust. 

Camp always accompanied his master in his 
rides and rambles, till he got too old and feeble, 
— but he never lost his affection or his intelli- 
gence. At Ashestiel he would go out every night 
to meet Scott, always taking the way indicated 
by the servant, who would say to him : " Camp, 
the Sherifi" is coming home by the ford," or, " by 
the hill." 

Shortly after the family removed to Edinburgh, 



264 MELROSE. — ABBOTSFORD. — DRYBURGH. 

Camp died, and was buried by moonlight, in a 
little garden, back of the house, and in sight of 
the window of his master's study. The poet him- 
self laid him in the grave, and sadly smoothed 
down the turf above him, while the whole family 
stood by in tears. Scott had engaged to dine out 
that day, but excused himself on account " of the 
death of a dear old friend." How I like that in 
him ! 

Maida, beautiful Maida ! lived and died at Ab- 
botsford, where a monument was erected to her 
memory. 

In 1808 and 1810, Scott pubhshed " Mar- 
mion " and " The Lady of the Lake," delightful 
poems, which made him idolized in his native 
land, and spread the circle of his fame till it 
had widened over the world. Soon after this, 
he purchased Abbotsford, then a lonely, uncul- 
tivated place, but which he saw could be made 
very beautiful. His first plan was to build a 
simple cottage ; but, as his means increased, he 
became ambitious for something grander, and, 
after several years, the present noble mansion 
was erected. 

In 1814, Scott published " Waverley," the first 



Sffi WALTER SCOTT. 265 

of the most wonderful series of romances ever 
written, called the " The Waverley Novels." He 
did not give his name as the writer of this work ; 
and for several years only his publishers and a 
few friends knew to a certainty that he was the 
sole author of this and the many splendid novels 
that rapidly followed it. 

For a few bright years, Scott was one of the 
happiest as well as one of the greatest of men. 
His works brought him in large sums of money, 
which he spent in buying new lands, in planting 
and building at Abbotsford. He was successful 
in all he undertook. Men and women of genius, 
princes, and the highest nobility flocked to see 
him. He was rich, he was honored, and, what 
was far better, he saw his beautiful children 
growing up around him, healthful, intelligent, 
and good. I am glad to be able to say that he 
bore his fame and fortune with a manly humility, 
and always found his greatest happiness in help- 
ing and pleasing others. 

Scott had two friends at Abbotsford whom he 
especially loved and trusted, — Mr. Laidlaw, or 
" Willie Laidlaw," his steward, a very intelligent 
man, and a poet ; and Tom Purdie, his forester, 



266 MELEOSE. — ABBOTSFORD. — DRYBUEGH. 

the most faithful of servants, who loved his mas- 
ter with all his great, honest heart. 

I have only space to mention a few of the prin- 
cipal events in the busy and splendid life of Scott. 
He was made a baronet by George the Fourth, in 
1820. Shortly after, his eldest daughter, Sophia, 
was married to Mr. Lockhart. His son Walter 
was in the army ; Charles was a clerk in govern- 
ment office. 

And now I come to the dark days. In conse- 
quence of some unwise speculations, his pub- 
lishers, with whom he was in partnership, in a 
time of commercial difficulty and panic, became 
involved, failed, and Sir Walter was ruined ! 

He gave up all to his creditors, even liis be- 
loved books ; and nobly resolved to devote the 
rest of his life, if necessary, to the payment of 
all demands against him, enormous as they were. 

About this time, trouble after trouble came upon 
him. His little grandson, John Hugh Lockhart, 
or " Hugh Littlejohn," as he is called in the 
" Tales of a Grandfather," for whom, on account 
of a lameness like his own, he had always felt a 
peculiar tenderness, was given over by the physi- 
cians as an incurable invalid. 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 267 

Then Lady Scott, his gentle and beloved wife, 
died at Abbotsford, after a painful illness. Yet, 
amid losses, embarrassments, anxieties, and bitter 
griefs, the brave and conscientious man labored 
on, allowing himself no time for rest or weeping. 
He finished his great "Life of Napoleon," — he 
wrote novels, essays, reviews, biographies, poems, 
toiling so incessantly, so terribly hard, that at 
length his health, and, what was sadder still , his 
mind, began to give way. Within the first two 
years after his failure, he paid his creditors forty 
thousand pounds ! — all made by his pen. 

One evening, in 1829, " honest Tom Purdie," 
after a hard day's work, leaned his head on his 
table and fell asleep. As he had seemed perfectly 
well, his family did not try to wake him for some 
time, but went softly about, and spoke low, for 
they knew he was tired. When supper was 
ready, they called him. He did not answer. 
They lifted his head from the table, and found 
that he was dead ! This was another shock to 
the affectionate heart and broken spirit of Sir 
Walter. 

A few months after, he had a paralytic stroke, 
— was extremely ill and speechless for some time, 



268 MELROSE. — ABBOTSFORD. — DRYBURGH. 

but rallied, and very soon went to work again. 
It was in vain his children and friends entreated 
him to give himself a little rest. He could not 
rest, he said, he could not live under such a load 
of debt. In 1830, he had another attack of paral- 
ysis, yet rallied again, and that same year paid 
his creditors another large sum. They, in grati- 
tude for his exertions, gave back to him the 
library, museum, plate, furniture, and paintings 
at Abbotsford, — where he was allowed to reside 
when he wished. This generous kindness cheered 
him very much, and he went on with his labors. 
But alas, he could not write any more in his old 
strong, clear style ! There seemed a mist over 
his mind, and his thoughts grew weak and wan- 
dering. Yet, every now and then, his genius 
flashed out as bright as ever, and as his daily 
talk and habits were little changed, those around 
him hardly dared to say to one another, " He is 
failing." 

In the spring of 1831, he had a stroke of paral- 
ysis which not only injured his memory and his 
speech, but somewhat distorted his face. He 
also suffered greatly from rheumatism, cramps, 
and increased lameness. From every attack he 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 269 

rose up feebler, and more bewildered, but still 
strong in will. He was like some noble animal, 
struck down by repeated blows, but still strug- 
gling up and staggering on, weak and blinded. 
In the fall, he went to Italy, with a little hope of 
getting better. He was accompanied by his son 
Walter and his daughter Anne. They visited 
many places which would have deeply interested 
the poet in his happier days, — but now they gave 
him little pleasure. He was ill, weary, melan- 
choly, and homesick. His great fame was now a 
real affliction, for it caused people to press upon 
him in a way that was almost cruel. His chief 
comfort was in a strange delusion. He imagined 
that all his debts were paid, and he was a free 
man, with ample means once more. At times, 
this happy hallucination left him, and he would 
go to work harder than ever, and bring on an- 
other attack. While at Naples, he wrote in his 
diary : " Poor Johnny Lockhart ! The boy is 
gone whom we made so much of." Yes, his 
darling grandson was dead. 

Sir Walter grew alarmingly worse, and begged 
to be taken home, that he might die at Abbots- 
ford ; so, early in the summer his party returned 

12* 



270 MELKOSE. — ABBOTSFOED. — DRYBURGH. 

to England. At the hotel in London he lay for 
some weeks in a state of utter exhaustion and 
stupor. Yet he knew his children, and would 
rouse up now and then and speak to them in 
the old loving way, and tell them how his heart 
yearned for Abbotsford. As soon as it was 
thought safe for him to travel farther, he was 
taken home. He did not seem to take notice of 
anything till they came in sight of Melrose, and 
other familiar places, when he became greatly 
excited with joy, and as they drew near Abbots- 
ford he could scarcely be kept in the carriage, he 
was so impatient to reach it. 

Mr. Laidlaw met him at the porch, and helped 
him into the house. Sir Walter's eye lighted 
up at sight of his old friend, and he exclaimed, 
" Ha ! Willie Laidlaw, man, how often I have 
thought of you." His dogs came crowding around 
his chair, fawning on him and licking his hands. 
He bent down and smiled and wept over them for 
a while, then fell back and went to sleep. 

The next morning he awoke refreshed, calm 
and conscious, and asked to be taken out to see 
his garden and grounds. Willie Laidlaw wheeled 
him about for some time, in a Bath chair, fol- 



SIE WALTER SCOTT. 271 

lowed by his children, his grandchildren, and his 
favorite dogs. He often smiled tenderly on them 
all, and on the summer glory of the flowers and 
trees, and talked a little, very sweetly and hke 
himself. Then he wished to be wheeled through 
his house, and as they passed around the lofty 
suite of rooms, endeared to him by so many sweet 
and bright memories, he said, " I have seen much, 
but nothing like my own house, — give me one 
turn more." 

After this, for a little while, he took the air 
daily in his Bath chair, and so visited several 
spots most dear to him in his grounds. He often 
asked Mr. Lockhart to read to him, and it was 
noticed that, though he seemed to have forgotten 
poems that he had once had by heart, he never 
forgot the Bible, which he loved more than ever ; 
and one night, when his little grandson, Walter 
Lockhart, was repeating some of Watts's Hymns, 
he seemed to remember them perfectly. 

One day, he asked to be taken to his study, foi 
he wanted to write. His daughters opened his 
desk and got everything ready for him, and he 
was wheeled into his old place. He smiled and 
said, ''Thank you, — now give me my pen and 



272 MELKOSE. — ABBOTSFORD. — DRYBURGH. 

leave me to myself for a while." Mrs. Lockhart 
put the pen into his hand, but the poor old man 
could not hold it. As it droj^ped upon the paper 
he sank back on his pillow, burst into tears, and 
gave up forever ! 

Soon after this, he was taken to his own room, 
which he never left again. Yet he lingered until 
the 21st of September, most of the time in a state 
of complete stupor and unconsciousness. On the 
morning of the ITth he awoke conscious and 
composed. He seemed to think himself dying, 
and said to Mr. Lockhart : " I may have but a 
minute to speak to you. My dear, be a good 
man, — be virtuous, — be religious, — he a good 
man. Nothing else will give you any comfort 
when you come to lie here." 

Mr. Lockhart asked if he should call Sophia 
and Anne (Sir Walter's sons had been obliged 
to return to their posts). " No," he said, " don't 
disturb them. Poor souls ! I know they were up 
all night. God bless you all." 

These were his last audible words. He sunk 
again into a deep stupor, and only revived for a 
moment when his sons came to him. He knew 
them, and blessed them with his eyes. 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 273 

He passed away very calmly, with all his chil- 
dren kneeling around him, and his son Walter 
kissed down his eyelids for the last sleep. 

When, a few days after, that bereaved family 
returned from Dryburgh Abbey, where they had 
laid the worn and aged form of their beloved, to 
beautiful and desolate Abbotsford, they tried to 
comfort one another with thoughts of him in a 
better home, — in the midst of all his loved ones 
gone before, — with his tender wife by his side, 
and dear little Johnny at his knee. 

When her idolized father was gone, Anne 
Scott had no heart to stay. She drooped and 
died within that year. Sophia followed a few 
years after, and Walter and Charles have since 
died. Abbotsford is now occupied by Mr. Hope, 
who married a granddaughter of Sir Walter 
Scott. 



THE END. 



Cambridge : Stereotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co. 



l-'i 



